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LIFE’S LITTLE IRONIES 


a Set ot sales 

WITH 

SOME COLLOQUIAL SKETCHES 

ENTITLED 

A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS 


BY 

THOMAS HARDY 

H 

AUTHOR OF “TESS OF THE D’URBERVILLES ” 
“ A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES ” ETC. 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 



Books by 

THOMAS HARDY 

Under the Greenwood Tree. Crown 8vo . 
Desperate Remedies. Crown 8vo. Map . 

A Laodicean. Crown 8vo. Map .... 

Par from the Madding Crowd. Cr. 8vo. Map 
The Mayor of Casterbridge. Cr. 8vo. Map 
Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Crown 8vo . 

Two on a Tower. Crown 8vo. Map . . 

A Pair of Blue Eyes. Crown 8vo. Map . 

The Woodlanders. Crown 8vo .... 

The Hand of Ethelberta. Cr. 8vo. Map . 

The Trumpet Major. Crown 8vo. Map . 

The Return of the Native. Cr. 8vo. Map 
Wessex Tales. Crown 8vo. Map . • . 

Jude the Obscure. Crown 8vo .... 

The Well-Beloved. Crown 8vo. Map 
X^ifE’s Little Ironies. Crown 8vo . . . 

A Group of Noble Dames. Ul’d. iamo . . 

Fellow-Townsmen. 3amo 

Wessex Poems. First Series. Crown 8vo . 
Wessex Poems. Second Series. Crown 8vo, net 

HARPER & BROTHERS. PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 

3 3 ^ & SY 

aA 


Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE SON’S VETO 3 

FOR CONSCIENCE’ SAKE 22 

A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 44 

ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 76 

TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 107 

THE MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION . . 129 

THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 152 

A TRADITION OF 1804 175 

A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS . . . . 187 

TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER 193 

THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOMES 205 

THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN’S STORY 218 

ANDREY SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND CLERK . 223 
OLD ANDREY’S EXPERIENCE AS A MUSICIAN . . . 234 

ABSENT-MINDEDNESS IN A PARISH CHOIR .... 238 

THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLEYS 243 

INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MR. GEORGE CROOK- 

HILL 254 

NETTY SARGENT’S COPYHOLD 260 



THE SON’S VETO 


I 

To the eyes of a man viewing it from behind, the 
nut-brown hair was a wonder and a mystery. Under 
the black beaver hat, surmounted by its tuft of black 
feathers, the long locks, braided and twisted and coiled 
like the rushes of a basket, composed a rare, if some- 
what barbaric, example of ingenious art. One could 
understand such weavings and coilings being wrought 
to last intact for a year, or even a calendar month ; 
but that they should be all demolished regularly at 
bedtime, after a single day of permanence, seemed a 
reckless waste of successful fabrication. 

And she had done it all herself, poor thing. She 
had no maid, and it was almost the only accomplish- 
ment she could boast of. Hence the unstinted pains. 

She was a young invalid lady — not so very much 
of an invalid — sitting in a wheeled chair, which had 
been pulled up in the front part of a green enclosure, 
close to a band-stand, where a concert was going on, 
during a warm June afternoon. It had place in one 
of the minor parks or private gardens that are to be 
found in the suburbs of London, and was the effort of 
a local association to raise money for some charity. 
There are worlds within worlds in the great city, and 
though nobody outside the immediate district had 
ever heard of the charity, or the band, or the garden, 


4 


life’s little ironies 


the enclosure was filled with an interested audience 
sufficiently informed on all these. 

As the strains proceeded many of the listeners ob- 
served the chaired lady, whose back hair, by reason 
of her prominent position, so challenged inspection. 
Her face was not easily discernible, but the aforesaid 
cunning tress-weavings, the white ear and poll, and 
the curve of a cheek which was neither flaccid nor 
sallow, were signals that led to the expectation of 
good beauty in front. Such expectations are not in- 
frequently disappointed as soon as the disclosure 
comes ; and in the present case, when the lady, by 
a turn of the head, at length revealed herself, she was 
not so handsome as the people behind her had sup- 
posed, and even hoped — they did not know why. 

For one thing (alas ! the commonness of this com- 
plaint), she was less young than they had fancied her 
to be. Yet attractive her face unquestionably was, 
and not at all sickly. The revelation of its details 
came each time she turned to talk to a boy of twelve 
or thirteen who stood beside her, and the shape of 
whose hat and jacket implied that he belonged to a 
well-known public school. The immediate by-stand- 
ers could hear that he called her “ Mother.” 

When the end of the programme was reached, and 
the audience withdrew, many chose to find their way 
out by passing at her elbow. Almost all turned their 
heads to take a full and near look at the interesting 
woman, who remained stationary in the chair till the 
way should be clear enough for her to be wheeled 
out without obstruction. As if she expected their 
glances, and did not mind gratifying their curiosity, 
she met the eyes of several of her observers by lift- 
ing her own, showing these to be soft, brown, and af- 
fectionate orbs, a little plaintive in their regard. 

She was conducted out of the garden, and passed 


THE SON’S VETO 


a 


along the pavement till she disappeared from view, the 
school-hoy walking beside her. To inquiries made by 
some persons who watched her away, the answer came 
that she was the second wife of the incumbent of a 
neighboring parish, and that she was lame. She was 
generally believed to be a woman with a story — an in- 
nocent one, but a story of some sort or other. 

In conversing with her on their way home the boy 
who walked at her elbow said that he hoped his father 
had not missed them. 

“ He have been so comfortable these last few hours 
that I am sure he cannot have missed us,” she replied. 

“ Has , dear mother — not have /” exclaimed the pub- 
lic-school boy, with an impatient fastidiousness that 
was almost harsh. “ Surely you know that by this 
time !” 

His mother hastily adopted the correction, and did 
not resent his making it, or retaliate, as she might 
well have done, by bidding him to wipe that crumby 
mouth of his, whose condition had been caused by sur- 
reptitious attempts to eat a piece of cake without tak- 
ing it out of the pocket wherein it lay concealed. 
After this the pretty woman and the boy went on- 
ward in silence. 

That question of grammar bore upon her history, 
and she fell into reverie, of a somewhat sad kind to 
all appearance. It might have been assumed that she 
was wondering if she had done wisely in shaping her 
life as she had shaped it, to bring out such a result as 
this. 

In a remote nook in North Wessex, forty miles 
from London, near the thriving county-town of Ald- 
brickham, there stood a pretty village with its church 
and parsonage, which she knew well enough, but her 
son had never seen. It was her native village, Gay- 
mead, and the first event bearing upon her present sit- 


6 


life’s little ironies 


uation had occurred at that place when she was only 
a girl of nineteen. 

How well she remembered it, that first act in her lit- 
tle tragi-comedy, the death of her reverend husband’s 
first wife. It happened on a spring evening, and she 
who now and for many years had filled that first wife’s 
place was then parlor-maid in the parson’s house. 

When everything had been done that could be 
done, and the death was announced, she had gone out 
in the dusk to visit her parents, who were living 
in the same village, to tell them the sad news. As 
she opened the white swing-gate and looked towards 
the trees which rose westward, shutting out the pale 
light of the evening sky, she discerned, without much 
surprise, the figure of a man standing in the hedge, 
though she roguishly exclaimed, as a matter of form, 
“ Oh, Sam, how you frightened me !” 

He was a young gardener of her acquaintance. She 
told him the particulars of the late event, and they 
stood silent, these two young people, in that elevated, 
calmly philosophic mind which is engendered when a 
tragedy has happened close at hand, and has not hap- 
pened to the philosophers themselves. But it had its 
bearings upon their relations. 

“ And will you stay on now at the Vicarage, just 
the same ?” asked he. 

She had hardly thought of that. “Oh yes — I sup- 
pose,” she said. “Everything will be just as usual, I 
imagine.” 

He walked beside her towards her mother’s. Pres- 
ently his arm stole round her waist. She gently re- 
moved it ; but he placed it there again, and she 
yielded the point. “You see, dear Sophy, you don’t 
know that you’ll stay on ; you may want a home ; and 
I shall be ready to offer one some day, though I may 
not be ready just yet.” 


THE SON’S VETO 


7 


“ Why, Sam, how can you be so fast? I’ve never 
even said I liked ’ee ; and it is all your own doing, 
coming after me.” 

“ Still, it is nonsense to say I am not to have a try at 
you, like the rest.” He stooped to kiss her a farewell, 
for they had reached her mother’s door. 

“ Ho, Sam ; you sha’n’t !” she cried, putting her 
hand over his mouth. “ You ought to be more serious 
on such a night as this.” And she bade him adieu 
without allowing him to kiss her or to come indoors. 

The vicar just left a widower was at this time a 
man about forty years of age, of good family, and 
childless. He had led a secluded existence in this col- 
lege living, partly because there were no resident land- 
owners ; and his loss now intensified his habit of with- 
drawal from outward observation. He was still less 
seen than heretofore, kept himself still less in time 
-with the rhythm and racket of the movements called 
progress in the world without. For many months 
after his wife’s decease the economy of his household 
remained as before ; the cook, the house-maid, the par- 
lor-maid, and the man out-of-doors performed their 
duties or left them undone, just as nature prompted 
them — the vicar knew not which. It was then repre- 
sented to him that his servants seemed to have noth- 
ing to do in his small family of one. He was struck 
with the truth of this representation, and decided to 
cut down his establishment. But he was forestalled 
by Sophy, the parlor-maid, who said one evening that 
she wished to leave him. 

“ And why ?” said the parson. 

“ Sam Hobson has asked me to marry him, sir.” 

“ Well — do you want to marry ?” 

“ Not much. But it would be a home for me. And 
w r e have heard that one of us will have to leave.” 

A day or two after she said : “ I don’t want to 


life’s little ironies 


leave just yet, sir, if you don’t wish it. Sam and I 
have quarrelled.” 

He looked up at her. He had hardly ever observed 
her before, though he had been frequently conscious 
of her soft presence in the room. What a kitten-like, 
flexuous, tender creature she was ! She was the only 
one of the servants with whom he came into immedi- 
ate and continuous relation. What should he do if 
Sophy were gone ? 

Sophy did not go, but one of the others did, and 
things proceeded quietly again. 

When Mr. Twycott, the vicar, was ill, Sophy 
brought up his meals to him, and she had no sooner 
left the room one day than he heard a noise on the 
stairs. She had slipped down with the tray, and so 
twisted her foot that she could not stand. The vil- 
lage surgeon was called in ; the vicar got better, but 
Sophy was incapacitated for a long time ; and she was 
informed that she must never again walk much or en- 
gage in any occupation which required her to stand 
long on her feet. As soon as she was comparatively 
well she spoke to him alone. Since she was forbidden 
to walk and bustle about, and, indeed, could not do 
so, it became her duty to leave. She could very well 
work at something sitting down, and she had an aunt 
a seamstress. 

The parson had been very greatly moved by what 
she had suffered on his account, and he exclaimed, 
“ No, Sophy ; lame or not lame, I cannot let you go. 
You must never leave me again.” 

He came close to her, and, though she could never 
exactly tell how it happened, she became conscious of 
his lips upon her cheek. He then asked her to marry 
him. Sophy did not exactly love him, but she had a 
respect for him which almost amounted to veneration. 
Even if she had wished to get away from him she hard- 


THE SON’S VETO 


9 


ly dared refuse a personage so reverend and august in 
her eyes, and she assented forthwith to be his wife. 

Thus it happened that one fine morning, when the 
doors of the church were naturally open for ventila- 
tion, and the singing birds fluttered in and alighted 
on the tie-beams of the roof, there was a marriage- 
service at the communion rails which hardly a soul 
knew of. The parson and a neighboring curate had 
entered at one door, and Sophy at another, followed by 
two necessary persons, whereupon in a short time there 
emerged a newly-made husband and wife. 

Mr. Twycott knew perfectly well that he had com- 
mitted social suicide by this step, despite Sophy’s 
spotless character, and he had taken his measures ac- 
cordingly. An exchange of livings had been arranged 
with an acquaintance who was incumbent of a church 
in the south of London, and as soon as possible the 
couple removed thither, abandoning their pretty coun- 
try home with trees and shrubs and glebe for a nar- 
row, dusty house in a long, straight street, and their 
fine peal of bells for the wretchedest one-tongued 
clangor that ever tortured mortal ears. It was all on 
her account. They were, however, away from every one 
who had known her former position, and also under 
less observation from without than they would have 
had to put up with in any country parish. 

Sophy the woman was as charming a partner as a 
man could possess, though Sophy the lady had her 
deficiencies. She showed a natural aptitude for little 
domestic refinements, so far as related to things and 
manners ; but in what is called culture she was less 
intuitive. She had now been married more than four- 
teen years, and her husband had taken much trouble 
with her education ; but she still held confused ideas 
on the use of “ was ” and “ were,” which did not beget a 
respect for her among the few acquaintances she made. 


10 


life’s little ironies 


Her great grief in this relation was that her only child, 
on whose education no expense had been or would be 
spared, was now old enough to perceive these deficien- 
cies in his mother, and not only to see them but to feel 
irritated at their existence. 

Thus she lived on in the city, and wasted hours in 
braiding her beautiful hair, till her once apple cheeks 
waned to pink of the very faintest. Her foot had 
never regained its natural strength after the accident, 
and she was mostly obliged to avoid walking alto- 
gether. Her husband had grown to like London for 
its freedom and its domestic privacy ; but he was 
twenty years his Sophy’s senior, and had latterly been 
seized with a serious illness. On this day, however, 
he had seemed to be well enough to justify her accom- 
panying her son Randolph to the concert. 


II 

The next time we get a glimpse of her is when she 
appears in the mournful attire of a widow. 

Mr. Twycott had never rallied, and now lay in a 
well-packed cemetery to the south of the great city, 
where, if all the dead it contained had stood erect and 
alive, not one would have known him or recognized 
his name. The boy had dutifully followed him to the 
grave, and was now again at school. 

Throughout these changes Sophy had been treated 
like the child she was in nature though not in years. 
She was left with no control over anything that had 
been her husband’s beyond her modest personal in- 
come. In his anxiety lest her inexperience should be 
overreached he had safeguarded with trustees all he 
possibly could. The completion of the boy’s course 


THE SON’S VETO 


11 


at the public school, to be followed in due time by 
Oxford and ordination, had been all previsioned and 
arranged, and she really had nothing to occupy her 
in the world but to eat and drink, and make a business 
of indolence, and go on weaving and coiling the nut- 
brown hair, merely keeping a home open for the son 
whenever he came to her during vacations. 

Foreseeing his probable decease long years before 
her, her husband in his lifetime had purchased for her 
use a semi-detached villa in the same long, straight 
road whereon the church and parsonage faced, which 
was to be hers as long as she chose to live in it. Here 
she now resided, looking out upon the fragment of 
lawn in front, and through the railings at the ever-flow- 
ing traffic ; or, bending forward over the window-sill 
on the first floor, stretching her eyes far up and down 
the vista of sooty trees, hazy air, and drab house 
fagades, along which echoed the noises common to a 
suburban main thoroughfare. 

Somehow, her boy, with his aristocratic school- 
knowledge, his grammars, and his aversions, was los- 
ing those wide infantine sympathies, extending as far 
as to the sun and moon themselves, with which he, like 
other children, had been born, and which his mother, 
a child of nature herself, had loved in him ; he was 
reducing their compass to a population of a few thou- 
sand wealthy and titled people, the mere veneer of a 
thousand million or so of others who did not interest 
him at all. He drifted further and further away from 
her. Sophy’s milieu being a suburb of minor trades- 
men and under-clerks, and her almost only compan- 
ions the two servants of her own house, it was not 
surprising that after her husband’s death she soon lost 
the little artificial tastes she had acquired from him, 
and became — in her son’s eyes — a mother whose mis- 
takes and origin it was his painful lot as a gentleman 


12 LIFERS LITTLE IRONIES 

to blush for. As yet he was far from being man 
enough — if he ever would be — to rate these sins of 
hers at their true infinitesimal value beside the yearn- 
ing fondness that welled up and remained penned in 
her heart till it should be more fully accepted by him, 
or by some other person or thing. If he had lived at 
home with her he would have had all of it ; but he 
seemed to require so very little in present circum- 
stances, and it remained stored. 

Her life became insupportably dreary ; she could 
not take walks, and had no interest in going for 
drives, or, indeed, in travelling anywhere. Nearly 
two years passed without an event, and still she looked 
on that suburban road, thinking of the village in 
which she had been born, and whither she would have 
gone back — oh, how gladly! — even to work in the fields. 

Taking no exercise, she often could not sleep, and 
would rise in the night or early morning and look out 
upon the then vacant thoroughfare, where the lamps 
stood like sentinels waiting for some procession to go 
by. An approximation to such a procession was in- 
deed made every early morning about one o’clock, 
when the country vehicles passed up with loads of 
vegetables for Covent Garden market. She often saw 
them creeping along at this silent and dusky hour — 
wagon after wagon, bearing green bastions of cab- 
bages nodding to their fall, yet never falling; walls of 
baskets enclosing masses of beans and pease; pyramids 
of snow-white turnips, swaying howdahs of mixed 
produce — creeping along behind aged night-horses, 
who seemed ever patiently wondering between their 
hollow coughs why they had always to work at that 
still hour when all other sentient creatures were priv- 
ileged to rest. Wrapped in a cloak, it was soothing to 
watch and sympathize with them when depression and 
nervousness hindered sleep, and to see how the fresh 


THE SON’S VETO 


13 


green-stuff brightened to life as it came opposite the 
lamp, and how the sweating animals steamed and 
shone with their miles of travel. 

They had an interest, almost a charm, for Sophy, 
these semi-rural people and vehicles moving in an 
urban atmosphere, leading a life quite distinct from 
that of the daytime toilers on the same road. One 
morning a man who accompanied a wagon - load of po- 
tatoes gazed rather hard at the house fronts as he 
passed, and with a curious emotion she thought his 
form was familiar to her. She looked out for him 
again. His being an old-fashioned conveyance with 
a yellow front, it was easily recognizable, and on the 
third night after she saw it a second time. The man 
alongside was, as she had fancied, Sam Hobson, form- 
erly gardener at Gaymead, who would at one time 
have married her. 

She had occasionally thought of him, and wondered 
if life in a cottage with him would not have been a 
happier lot than the life she had accepted. She had 
not thought of him passionately, but her now dismal 
situation lent an interest to his resurrection — a tender 
interest which it is impossible to exaggerate. She 
went back to bed, and began thinking. When did 
these market-gardeners, who travelled up to town so 
regularly at one or two in the morning, come back ? 
She dimly recollected seeing their empty wagons, 
hardly noticeable among the ordinary day- traffic, pass- 
ing down at some hour before noon. 

It was only April, but that morning, after breakfast, 
she had the window opened, and sat looking out, the 
feeble sun shining full upon her. She affected to 
sew, but her eyes never left the street. Between ten 
and eleven the desired wagon, now unladen, reap- 
peared on its return journey. But Sam was not look- 
ing round him then, and drove on in a reverie. 


14 


life’s little ironies 


“Sam !” cried she. 

Turning with a start, his face lighted up. He called 
to him a little boy to hold the horse, alighted, and 
came and stood under her window. 

“I can’t come down easily, Sam, or I would!” she 
said. “ Did you know I lived here ?” 

“ Well, Mrs. Twycott, I knew you lived along here 
somewhere. I have often looked out for ’ee.” 

He briefly explained his own presence on the scene. 
He had long since given up his gardening in the vil- 
lage near Aldbrickham, and was now manager at a 
market-gardener’s on the south side of London, it be- 
ing part of his duty to go up to Covent Garden with 
wagon-loads of produce two or three times a week. 
In answer to her curious inquiry, he admitted that he 
had come to this particular district because he had 
seen in the Aldbrickham paper a year or two before 
the announcement of the death in South London of 
the aforetime vicar of Gaymead, which had revived 
an interest in her dwelling-place that he could not ex- 
tinguish, leading him to hover about the locality till 
his present post had been secured. 

They spoke of their native village in dear old North 
Wessex, the spots in which they had played together 
as children. She tried to feel that she was a dignified 
personage now, that she must not be too confidential 
with Sam. But she could not keep it up, and the tears 
hanging in her eyes were indicated in her voice. 

“You are not happy, Mrs. Twycott, I’m afraid,” he 
said. 

“ Oh, of course not ! I lost my husband only the 
year before last.” 

“Ah ! I meant in another way. You’d like to be 
home again ?” 

“This is my home — for life. The house belongs 
to me. But I understand” — She let it out then. 


THE SON’S VETO 


15 


“Yes, Sam. I long for home — our home ! I should 
like to be there, and never leave it, and die there.” 
But she remembered herself. “That’s only a mo- 
mentary feeling. I have a son, you know, a dear boy. 
He’s at school now.” 

“Somewhere handy, I suppose? I see there’s lots 
on ’em along this road.” 

“ Oh no ! Not in one of these wretched holes ! At 
a public school — one of the most distinguished in Eng- 
land.” 

“ Chok it all ! of course ! I forget, ma’am, that 
you’ve been a lady for so many years.” 

“No, I am not a lady,” she said, sadly. “I never 
shall be. But he’s a gentleman, and that — makes it — 
oh, how difficult for me !” 


Ill 

The acquaintance thus oddly reopened proceeded 
apace. She often looked out to get a few words with 
him, by night or by day. Her sorrow was that she 
could not accompany her one old friend on foot a lit- 
tle way, and talk more freely than she could do while 
he paused before the house. One night, at the begin- 
ning of June, when she was again on the watch after 
an absence of some days from the window, he entered 
the gate and said, softly, “Now, wouldn’t some air do 
you good ? I’ve only half a load this morning. Why 
not ride up to Covent Garden with me ? There’s a 
nice seat on the cabbages, where I’ve spread a sack. 
You can be home again in a cab before anybody is up.” 

She refused at first, and then, trembling with ex- 
citement, hastily finished her dressing, and wrapped 
herself up in cloak and veil, afterwards sidling down* 


16 


life’s little ironies 


stairs by the aid of the handrail, in a way she could 
adopt on an emergency. When she had opened the 
door she found Sam on the step, and he lifted her 
bodily on his strong arm across the little forecourt 
into his vehicle. Not a soul was visible or audible in 
the infinite length of the straight, flat highway, with 
its ever-waiting lamps converging to points in each 
direction. The air was fresh as country air at this 
hour, and the stars shone, except to the north-eastward, 
where there was a whitish light — the dawn. Sam 
carefully placed her in the seat and drove on. 

They talked as they had talked in old days, Sam 
pulling himself up now and then, when he thought 
himself too familiar. More than once she said with 
misgiving that she wondered if she ought to have in- 
dulged in the freak. “ But I am so lonely in my 
house,” she added, “and this makes me so happy!” 

“ You must come again, dear Mrs. Twycott. There 
is no time o’ day for taking the air like this.” 

It grew lighter and lighter. The sparrows became 
busy in the streets, and the city waxed denser around 
them. When they approached the river it was day, 
and on the bridge they beheld the full blaze of morn- 
ing sunlight in the direction of St. Paul’s, the river 
glistening towards it, and not a craft stirring. 

Near Coven t Garden he put her into a cab, and they 
parted, looking into each other’s faces like the very 
old friends they were. She reached home without ad- 
venture, limped to the door, and let herself in with 
her latch-key unseen. 

The air and Sam’s presence had revived her ; her 
cheeks were quite pink — almost beautiful. She had 
something to live for in addition to her son. A wom- 
an of pure instincts, she knew there had been nothing 
really wrong in the journey, but supposed it conven- 
tionally to be very wrong indeed. 


THE SON’S VETO 


iy 

Soon, however, she gave way to the temptation of 
going with him again, and on this occasion their con- 
versation was distinctly tender, and Sam said he never 
should forget her, notwithstanding that she had served 
him rather badly at one time. After much hesitation 
he told her of a plan it was in his power to carry 
out, and one he should like to take in hand, since he 
did not care for London work ; it was to set up as 
a master greengrocer down at Aldbrickham, the 
county-town of their native place. He knew of an 
opening — a shop kept by aged people who wished to 
retire. 

“ And why don’t you do .it, then, Sam ?” she asked, 
with a slight heart-sinking. 

“ Because I’m not sure if — you’d join me. I know 
you wouldn’t — couldn’t ! Such a lady as ye’ve been 
so long, you couldn’t be a wife to a man like me.” 

“ I hardly suppose I could !” she assented, also 
frightened at the idea. 

“ If you could,” he said, eagerly, “ you’d on’y have 
to sit in the back parlor and look through the glass 
partition when I was away sometimes — just to keep 
an eye on things. The lameness wouldn’t hinder 
that. I’d keep you as genteel as ever I could, dear 
Sophy — if I might think of it,” he pleaded. 

“Sam, I’ll be frank,” she said, putting her hand on 
his. “ If it were only myself I would do it, and 
gladly, though everything I possess would be lost to 
me by marrying again.” 

“ I don’t mind that. It’s more independent.” 

“ That’s good of you, dear, dear Sam. But there’s 
something else. I have a son. I almost fancy when 
I am miserable sometimes that he is not really mine, 
but one I hold in trust for my late husband. He 
seems to belong so little to me personally, so entirely 
to his dead father. He is so much educated and I so 
2 


18 


Lifers little ironies 

little that I do not feel dignified enough to be his 
mother. Well, he would have to be told.” 

“Yes. Unquestionably.” Sam saw her thought 
and her fear. “ Still, you can do as you like, Sophy 
— Mrs. Twycott,” he added. “ It is not you who are 
the child, but he.” 

“ Ah, you don’t know ! Sam, if I could, I would 
marry you, some day. But you must wait awhile, and 
let me think.” 

It was enough for him, and he was blithe at their 
parting. Not so she. To tell Randolph seemed im- 
possible. She could wait till he had gone up to Ox- 
ford, when what she did would affect his life but little. 
But would he ever tolerate the idea? And if not, 
could she defy him ? 

She had not told him a word when the yearly 
cricket-match came on at Lord’s between the public 
schools, though Sam had already gone back to Ald- 
brickham. Mrs. Twycott felt stronger than usual. 
She went to the match with Randolph, and was able 
to leave her chair and walk about occasionally. The 
bright idea occurred to her that she could casually 
broach the subject while moving round among the 
spectators, when the boy’s spirits were high with in- 
terest in the game, and he would weigh domestic 
matters as feathers in the scale beside the day’s vic- 
tory. They promenaded under the lurid July sun, 
this pair, so wide apart, yet so near, and Sophy saw 
the large proportion of boys like her own, in their 
broad white collars and dwarf hats, and all around the 
rows of great coaches under which was jumbled the 
debris of luxurious luncheons — bones, pie-crusts, cham- 
pagne-bottles, glasses, plates, napkins, and the family 
silver ; while on the coaches sat the proud fathers and 
mothers ; but never a poor mother like her. If Ran- 
dolph had not appertained to these, had not centred 


THE SON’S VETO 


19 


all his interests in them, had not cared exclusively for 
the class they belonged to, how happy would things 
have been ! A great huzza at some small performance 
with the bat burst from the multitude of relatives, 
and Randolph jumped wildly into the air to see what 
had happened. Sophy fetched up the sentence that 
had been already shaped; but she could not get it 
out. The occasion was, perhaps, an inopportune one. 
The contrast between her story and the display of 
fashion to which Randolph had grown to regard him- 
self as akin would be fatal. She awaited a better 
time. 

It was on an evening when they were alone in their 
plain suburban residence, where life was not blue but 
brown, that she ultimately broke silence, qualifying 
her announcement of a probable second marriage by 
assuring him that it would not take place for a long 
time to come, when he would be living quite inde- 
pendently of her. 

The boy thought the idea a very reasonable one, 
and asked if she had chosen anybody. She hesitated; 
and he seemed to have a misgiving. He hoped his 
step-father would be a gentleman, he said. 

“Not what you call a gentleman,” she answered, 
timidly. “ He’ll be much as I was before I knew your 
father;” and by degrees she acquainted him with the 
whole. The youth’s face remained fixed for a moment; 
then he flushed, leaned on the table, and burst into pas- 
sionate tears. 

His mother went up to him, kissed all of his face 
that she could get at, and patted his back as if he 
were still the baby he once had been, crying herself 
the while. When he had somewhat recovered from 
his paroxysm he went hastily to his own room and 
fastened the door. 

Parley ings were attempted through the key-hole. 


20 


life’s little ironies 


outside which she waited and listened. It was long 
before he would reply, and when he did it was to say 
sternly at her from within: “I am ashamed of you! 
It will ruin me ! A miserable boor! a churl ! a clown! 
It will degrade me in the eyes of all the gentlemen of 
England!” 

“ Say no more — perhaps I am wrong! I will struggle 
against it!” she cried, miserably. 

Before Randolph left her that summer a letter ar- 
rived from Sam to inform her that he had been unex- 
pectedly fortunate in obtaining the shop. He was in 
possession; it was the largest in the town, combining 
fruit with vegetables, and he thought it would form a 
home worthy even of her some day. Might he not 
run up to town to see her ? 

She met him by stealth, and said he must still wait 
for her final answer. The autumn dragged on, and 
when Randolph was home at Christmas for the holi- 
days she broached the matter again. But the young 
gentleman was inexorable. 

It was dropped for months; renewed again; aban- 
doned under his repugnance; again attempted, and 
thus the gentle creature reasoned and pleaded till four 
or five long years had passed. Then the faithful Sam 
revived his suit with some peremptoriness. Sophy’s 
son, now an undergraduate, was down from Oxford 
one Easter, when she again opened the subject. As 
soon as he was ordained, she argued, he would have a 
home of his own, wherein she, with her bad grammar 
and her ignorance, would be an encumbrance to him. 
Better obliterate her as much as possible. 

He showed a more manly anger now, but would not 
agree. She on her side was more persistent, and he 
had doubts whether she could be trusted in his ab- 
sence. But by indignation and contempt for her taste 
he completely maintained his ascendency; and finally 


THE SON’S VETO 


21 


taking her before a little cross and shrine that he had 
erected in his bedroom for his private devotions, 
there bade her kneel, and swear that she would not 
wed Samuel Hobson without his consent. “ I owe 
this to my father!” he said. 

The poor woman swore, thinking he would soften 
as soon as he was ordained and in full swing of clerical 
work. But he did not. His education had by this 
time sufficiently ousted his humanity to keep him 
quite firm; though his mother might have led an idyl- 
lic life with her faithful fruiterer and green-grocer, 
and nobody have been anything the worse in the 
world. 

Her lameness became more confirmed as time went 
on, and she seldom or never left the house in the long 
southern thoroughfare, where she seemed to be pining 
her heart away. “ Why mayn’t I say to* Sam that I’ll 
marry him ? Why mayn’t I ?” she would murmur 
plaintively to herself when nobody was near. 

Some four years after this date a middle-aged man 
was standing at the door of the largest fruiterer’s shop 
in Aldbrickham. He was the proprietor, but to-day, 
instead of his usual business attire, he wore a neat 
suit of black; and his window was partly shuttered. 
From the railway - station a funeral procession was 
seen approaching: it passed his door and went out of 
the town towards the village of Gaymead. The man, 
whose eyes were wet, held his hat in his hand as the 
vehicles moved by; while from the mourning coach a 
young smooth-shaven priest in a high waistcoat looked 
black as a cloud at the shopkeeper standing there. 

December, 1891. 


FOE CONSCIENCE’ SAKE 


I 

Whether the utilitarian or the intuitive theory of 
the moral sense be upheld, it is beyond question that 
there are a few subtle-souled persons with whom the 
absolute gratuitousness of an act of reparation is an 
inducement to perform it; while exhortation as to its 
necessity would breed excuses for leaving it undone. 
The case of Mr. Millborne and Mrs. Frankland partic- 
ularly illustrated this, and perhaps something more. 

There were few figures better known to the local 
crossing - sweeper than Mr. Millborne’s, in his daily 
comings and goings along a familiar and quiet Lon- 
don street, where he lived inside the door marked 
eleven, though not as householder. In age he was 
fifty at least, and his habits were as regular as those 
of a person can be who has no occupation but the 
study of how to keep himself employed. He turned 
almost always to the right on getting to the end of 
his street, then he went onward down Bond Street to 
his club, whence he returned by precisely the same 
course about six o’clock, on foot ; or, if he went to 
dine, later on in a cab. He was known to be a man of 
some means, though apparently not wealthy. Being 
a bachelor he seemed to prefer his present mode of 
living as a lodger in Mrs. Towney’s best rooms, with 


i'OR conscience’ sake 


the use of furniture which he had bought ten times 
over in rent during his tenancy, to having a house of 
his own. 

None among his acquaintance tried to know him 
well, for his manner and moods did not excite curi- 
osity or deep friendship. He was not a man who 
seemed to have anything on his mind, anything to 
conceal, anything to impart. From his casual re- 
marks it was generally understood that he was coun- 
try-born, a native of some place in Wessex; that 
he had come to London as a young man in a bank- 
ing-house, and had risen to a post of responsibility ; 
when, by the death of his father, who had been fort- 
unate in his investments, the son succeeded to an in- 
come which led him to retire from a business life 
somewhat early. 

One evening, when he had been unwell for several 
days, Dr. Bindon came in after dinner from the ad- 
joining medical quarter, and smoked with him over 
the fire. The patient’s ailment was not such as to re- 
quire much thought, and they talked together on in- 
different subjects. 

“ I am a lonely man, Bindon — a lonely man,” Mill- 
borne took occasion to say, shaking his head gloomi- 
ly. “You don’t know such loneliness as mine. . . . And 
the older I get the more I am dissatisfied with my- 
self. And to-day I have been, through an accident, 
more than usually haunted by what, above all other 
events of my life, causes that dissatisfaction — the rec- 
ollection of an unfulfilled promise made some twenty 
years ago. In ordinary affairs I have always been 
considered a man of my word ; and perhaps it is on 
that account that a particular vow I once made and 
did not keep comes back to me with a magnitude out 
of all proportion (I dare say) to its real gravity, es- 
pecially at this time of day. You know the discom- 


life’s little ironies 


u 

fort caused at night by the half-sleeping sense that 
a door or window has been left unfastened, or in the 
day by the remembrance of unanswered letters. So 
does that promise haunt me from time to time, and 
has done to-day particularly.” 

There was a pause, and they smoked on. Mill' 
borne’s eyes, though fixed on the fire, were really re- 
garding attentively a town in the West of England. 

“Yes,” he continued, “I have never quite forgot- 
ten it, though during the busy years of my life it 
was shelved and buried under the pressure of my 
pursuits. And, as I say, to-day in particular an in- 
cident in the law report of a somewhat similar kind 
has brought it back again vividly. However, what it 
was I can tell you in a few words, though no doubt 
you, as a man of the world, will smile at the thinness 
of my skin when you hear it. ... I came up to town at 
one -and -twenty, from Toneborough, in Outer Wes- 
sex, where I was born, and where, before I left, I had 
won the heart of a young woman of my own age. I 
promised her marriage, took advantage of my prom- 
ise, and — am a bachelor.” 

“The old story.” 

The other nodded. 

“I left the place, and thought at the time I had 
done a very clever thing in getting so easily out of 
an entanglement. But I have lived long enough for 
that promise to return to bother me — to be honest, 
not altogether as a pricking of the conscience, but as 
a dissatisfaction with myself as a specimen of the 
heap of flesh called humanity. If I were to ask you 
to lend me fifty pounds, which I would repay you 
next midsummer, and I did not repay you, I should 
consider myself a shabby sort of fellow, especially if 
you wanted the money badly. Yet I promised that 
girl just as distinctly, and then coolly broke my word, 


FOR conscience’ sake 


25 


fts if doing so were rather smart conduct than a mean 
action, for which the poor victim herself, encumbered 
with a child, and not I, had really to pay the penalty, 
in spite of certain pecuniary aid that was given. . . . 
There, that’s the retrospective trouble that I am al- 
ways unearthing ; and you may hardly believe that 
though so many years have elapsed, and it is all gone 
by and done with, and she must be getting on for an 
old woman now, as I am for an old man, it really often 
destroys my sense of self-respect still.” 

“Oh, I can understand it. All depends upon the 
temperament. Thousands of men would have forgot- 
ten all about it; so would you, perhaps, if you had 
married and had a family. Did she ever marry ?” 

“ I don’t think so. Oh no — she never did. She 
left Toneborough, and later on appeared under an- 
other name at Exonbury, in the next county, where 
she was not known. It is very seldom that I go 
down into that part of the country, but in passing 
through Exonbury on one occasion I learned that she 
was quite a settled resident there, as a teacher of mu- 
sic or something of the kind. That much I casually 
heard when I was there two or three years ago. But 
I have never set eyes on her since our original ac- 
quaintance, and should not know her if I met her.” 

“Did the child live?” asked the doctor. 

“ For several years, certainly,” replied his friend. 
“ I cannot say if she is living now. It was a little 
girl. She might be married by this time as far as 
years go.” 

“ And the mother — was she a decent, worthy young 
woman ?” 

“ Oh yes ; a sensible, quiet girl, neither attractive 
nor unattractive to the ordinary observer ; simply 
commonplace. Her position at the time of our ac- 
quaintance was not so good as mine. My father was 


26 


life’s little ironies 


a solicitor, as I think I have told you. She was a 
young girl in a music-shop ; and it was represented 
to me that it would be beneath my position to marry 
her. Hence the result.” 

“Well, all I can say is that after twenty years it is 
probably too late to think of mending such a matter. 
It has doubtless by this time mended itself. You had 
better dismiss it from your mind as an evil past your 
control. Of course, if mother and daughter are alive, 
or either, you might settle something upon them, if 
you were inclined, and had it to spare.” 

“Well, I haven’t much to spare, and I have rela- 
tions in narrow circumstances — perhaps narrower 
than theirs. But that is not the point. Were I ever 
so rich I feel I could not rectify the past by money. 
I did not promise to enrich her. On the contrary, 
I told her it would probably be dire poverty for both 
of us. But I did promise to make her my wife.” 

“ Then find her and do it,” said the doctor, jocularly, 
as he rose to leave. 

“ Ah, Bindon. That, of course, is the obvious jest 
But I haven’t the slightest desire for marriage ; I am 
quite content to live as I have lived. I am a bache- 
lor by nature and instinct and habit and everything. 
Besides, though I respect her still (for she was not 
an atom to blame), I haven’t any shadow of love for 
her. In my mind she exists as one of those women 
you think well of, but find uninteresting. It would 
be purely with the idea of putting wrong right that 
I should hunt her up, and propose to do it off-hand.” 

“You don’t think of it seriously?” said his surprised 
friend. 

“ I sometimes think that I would, if it were prac- 
ticable ; simply, as I say, to recover my sense of being 
a man of honor.” 

“ I wish you luck in the enterprise,” said Dr. Bin- 


FOB CONSCIENCE’ SAKE 


27 


don. “ You’ll soon be out of that chair, and then you 
can put your impulse to the test. But — after twenty 
years of silence — I should say, don’t 1” 


II 

The doctor’s advice remained counterpoised in 
Millborne’s mind by the aforesaid mood of serious- 
ness and sense of principle, approximating often to 
religious sentiment, which had been evolving itself 
in his breast for months, and even years. 

The feeling, however, had no immediate effect upon 
Mr. Millborne’s actions. He soon got over his trifling 
illness, and was vexed with himself for having, in a 
moment of impulse, confided such a case of conscience 
to anybody. 

But the force which had prompted it, though la- 
tent, remained with him, and ultimately grew strong- 
er. The upshot was that about four months after the 
date of his illness and disclosure, Millborne found 
himself on a mild spring morning at Paddington Sta- 
tion, in a train that was starting for the west. His 
many intermittent thoughts on his broken promise 
from time to time, in those hours when loneliness 
brought him face to face with his own personality, 
had at last resulted in this course. 

The decisive stimulus had been given when, a day 
or two earlier, on looking into a post-office directory, 
he learned that the woman he had not met for twenty 
years was still living on at Exonbury under the name 
she had assumed when, a year or two after her dis- 
appearance from her native town and his, she had 
returned from abroad as a young widow with a child, 
and taken up her residence at the former city. Her 


28 


life’s little ironies 


condition was apparently but little changed, and her 
daughter seemed to be with her, their names standing 
in the directory as “Mrs. Leonora Frankland and 
Miss Frankland, Teachers of Music and Dancing.” 

Mr. Millborne reached Exonbury in the afternoon, 
and his first business, before even taking his luggage 
into the town, was to find the house occupied by the 
teachers. Standing in a central and open place it 
was not difficult to discover, a well-burnished brass 
door - plate bearing their names prominently. He 
hesitated to enter without further knowledge, and 
ultimately took lodgings over a toy -shop opposite, 
securing a sitting-room which faced a similar draw- 
ing or sitting room at the Franklands’, where the 
dancing lessons were given. Installed here he was 
enabled to make indirectly, and without suspicion, in- 
quiries and observations on the character of the ladies 
over the way, which he did with much deliberateness. 

He learned that the widow, Mrs. Frankland, with 
her one daughter, Frances, was of cheerful and ex- 
cellent repute, energetic and painstaking with her 
pupils, of whom she had a good many, and in whose 
tuition her daughter assisted her. She was quite 
a recognized townswoman, and though the dancing 
branch of her profession was perhaps a trifle world- 
ly, she was really a serious-minded lady who, being 
obliged to live by what she knew how to teach, bal- 
anced matters by lending a hand at charitable bazaars, 
assisting at sacred concerts, and giving musical rec- 
itations in aid of funds for bewildering happy sav- 
ages, and other such enthusiasms of this enlight- 
ened country. Her daughter was one of the foremost 
of the bevy of young women who decorated the 
churches at Easter and Christmas, was organist in 
one of those edifices, and had subscribed to the testi- 
monial of a silver broth-basin that was presented to 


FOE CONSCIENCE’ SAKE 


29 


the Rev. Mr. Walker as a token of gratitude for his 
faithful and arduous intonations of six months as 
sub-precentor in the cathedral. Altogether, mother 
and daughter appeared to be a typical and innocent 
pair amoug the genteel citizens of Exonbury. 

As a natural and simple way of advertising their 
profession they allowed the windows of the music- 
room to be a little open, so that you had the pleasure 
of hearing all along the street at any hour between 
sunrise and sunset fragmentary gems of classical 
music as interpreted by the young people of twelve 
or fourteen who took lessons there. Rut it was said 
that Mrs. Frankland made most of her income by 
letting out pianos on hire, and by selling them as 
agent for the makers. 

The report pleased Millborne ; it was highly credit- 
able, and far better than he had hoped. He was cu- 
rious to get a view of the two women who led such 
blameless lives. 

He had not long to wait to gain a glimpse of Leo- 
nora. It was when she was standing on her own 
door-step, opening her parasol, on the morning after 
his arrival. She was thin, though not gaunt ; and a 
good, well -wearing, thoughtful face had taken the 
place of the one which had temporarily attracted him 
in the days of his nonage. She wore black, and it 
became her in her character of widow. The daugh- 
ter next appeared; she was a smoothed and rounded 
copy of her mother, with the same decision in her mien 
that Leonora had, and a bounding gait in which he 
traced a faint resemblance to his own at her age. 

For the first time he absolutely made up his mind 
to call on them. But his antecedent step was to send 
Leonora a note the next morning, stating his proposal 
to visit her, and suggesting the evening as the time, 
because she seemed to be so greatly occupied in her 


30 


life’s little ironies 


professional capacity during the day. He purposely 
worded his note in such a form as not to require an 
answer from her which would be possibly awkward to 
write. 

No answer came. Naturally he should not have 
been surprised at this; and yet he felt a little checked, 
even though she had only refrained from volunteering 
a reply that was not demanded. 

At eight, the hour fixed by himself, he crossed over 
and was passively admitted by the servant. Mrs. 
Frankland, as she called herself, received him in the 
large music and dancing room on the first floor front, 
and not in any private little parlor as he had expected. 
This cast a distressingly business-like color over their 
first meeting after so many years of severance. The 
woman he had wronged stood before him, well-dressed, 
even to his metropolitan eyes, and her manner as she 
came up to him was dignified even to hardness. She 
certainly was not glad to see him. But what could 
he expect after a neglect of twenty years ! 

“How do you do, Mr. Millborne?” she said, cheer- 
fully, as to any chance caller. “I am obliged to re- 
ceive you here because my daughter has a friend down- 
stairs.” 

“Your daughter — and mine.” 

“ Ah — yes, yes,” she replied, hastily, as if the addi- 
tion had escaped her memory. “ But perhaps the less 
said about that the better, in fairness to me. You will 
consider me a widow, please.” 

“ Certainly, Leonora — ” He could not get on, her 
manner was so cold and indifferent. The expected 
scene of sad reproach, subdued to delicacy by the run 
of years, was absent altogether. He was obliged to 
come to the point without preamble. 

“ You are quite free, Leonora — I mean as to mar- 
riage ? There is nobody who has your promise, or — ” 


FOE CONSCIENCE’ SAKE 


31 


“ Oh yes; quite free, Mr. Millborne,” she said, some- 
what surprised. 

“ Then I will tell you why I l^ave come. Twenty 
years ago I promised to make you my wife, and I am 
here to fulfil that promise. Heaven forgive my tardi- 
ness!” 

Her surprise was increased, but she was not agi- 
tated. She seemed to become gloomy, disapproving. 
“ I could not entertain such an idea at this time of 
life,” she said, after a moment or two. “It would 
complicate matters too greatly. I have a very fair 
income, and require no help of any sort. I have no 
wish to marry. . . . What could have induced you to 
come on such an errand now ? It seems quite ex- 
traordinary, if I may say so.” 

“It must — I dare say it does,” Millborne replied, 
vaguely; “and I must tell you that impulse — I mean 
in the sense of passion — has little to do with it. I wish 
to marry you, Leonora; I much desire to marry you. 
But it is an affair of conscience, a case of fulfilment. 
I promised you, and it was dishonorable of me to go 
away. I want to remove that sense of dishonor before 
I die. No doubt we might get to love each other as 
warmly as we did in old times.” 

She dubiously shook her head. “ I appreciate your 
motives, Mr. Millborne ; but you must consider my 
position, and you will see that, short of the personal 
wish to marry, which I don’t feel, there is no reason 
why I should change my state, even though by so do- 
ing I should ease your conscience. My position in 
this town is a respected one; I have built it up by my 
own hard labors, and, in short, I don’t wish to alter it. 
My daughter, too, is just on the verge of an engage- 
ment to be married to a young man who will make 
her an excellent husband. It will be in every way a 
desirable match for her. He is down-stairs now.” 


32 


life’s little ironies 


“ Does she know — anything about me ?” 

“ Oh no, no ; God forbid ! Her father is dead and 
buried to her. So that, you see, things are going on 
smoothly, and I don’t want to disturb their progress.” 

He nodded. “Very well,” he said, and rose to go. 
At the door, however, he came back again. 

“Still, Leonora,” he urged, “I have come on pur- 
pose, and I don’t see what disturbance would be 
caused. You would simply marry an old friend. 
Won’t you reconsider? It is no more than right 
that we should be united, remembering the girl.” 

She shook her head, and patted with her foot ner- 
vously. 

“Well, I won’t detain you,” he added. “I shall 
not be leaving Exonbury yet. You will allow me to 
see you again ?” 

“Yes; I don’t mind,” she said, reluctantly. 

‘The obstacles he had encountered, though they did 
not reanimate his dead passion for Leonora, did cer- 
tainly make it appear indispensable to his peace of 
mind to overcome her coldness. He called frequent- 
ly. The first meeting with the daughter was a trying 
ordeal, though he did not feel drawn towards her as he 
had expected to be; she did not excite his sympathies. 
Her mother confided to Frances the errand of “her 
old friend,” which was viewed by the daughter with 
strong disfavor. His desire being thus uncongenial 
to both, for a long time Millborne made not the least 
impression upon Mrs. Frankland. His attentions pes- 
tered her rather than pleased her. He was surprised 
at her firmness, and it was only when he hinted at 
moral reasons for their union that she was ever shaken. 
“Strictly speaking,” he would say, “ we ought, as honest 
persons, to marry; and that’s the truth of it, Leonora.” 

“ I have looked at it in that light,” she said, quick- 
ly. “ It struck me at the very first. But I don’t see 


FOR CONSCIENCE’ SAKE 


33 


the force of the argument. I totally deny that after 
this interval of time I am bound to marry you for 
honor’s sake. I would have married you, as you know 
well enough, at the proper time. But what is the use 
of remedies now ?” 

They were standing at the window. A scantily- 
whiskered young man in clerical attire called at the 
door below. Leonora flushed with interest. 

“ Who is he ?” asked Mr. Millborne. 

“ My Frances’s lover. I am so sorry — she is not at 
home ! Ah ! they have told him where she is, and he 
has gone to find her. I hope that suit will prosper, 
at any rate !” 

“ Why shouldn’t it ?” 

“Well, he cannot marry yet; and Frances sees but 
little of him now he has left Exonbury. He was for- 
merly doing duty here, but now he is curate of St. 
John’s, Ivell, fifty miles up the line. There is a tacit 
agreement between them, but — there have been friends 
of his who object, because of our vocation. However, 
he sees the absurdity of such an objection as that, and 
is not influenced by it.” 

“ Your marriage with me would help the match, in- 
stead of hindering it, as you have said.” 

“ Do you think it would ?” 

“ It certainly would, by taking you out of this busi- 
ness altogether.” 

By chance he had found the way to move her some- 
what, and he followed it up. This view was imparted 
to Mrs. Frankland’s daughter, and it led her to soften 
her opposition. Millborne, who had given up his lodg- 
ing in Exonbury, journeyed to and fro regularly, till 
at last he overcame her negations, and she expressed a 
reluctant assent. 

They were married at the nearest church ; and the 
good-will — whatever that was — of the music -and- 
3 


34 


life’s little ironies 


dancing connection was sold to a successor only too 
ready to jump into the place, the Millbornes having 
decided to live in London. 


Ill 

Millborne was a householder in his old district, 
though not in his old street, and Mrs. Millborne and 
their daughter had turned themselves into Londoners. 
Frances was well reconciled to the removal by her 
lover’s satisfaction at the change. It suited him bet- 
ter to travel from Ivell a hundred miles to see her in 
London, where he frequently had other engagements, 
than fifty in the opposite direction where nothing but 
herself required his presence. So here they were, fur- 
nished up to the attics, in one of the small but popu- 
lar streets of the West district, in a house whose 
front, till lately of the complexion of a chimney- 
sweep, had been scraped to show to the surprised way- 
farer the bright yellow and red brick that had lain 
lurking beneath the soot of fifty years. 

The social lift that the two women had derived 
from the alliance was considerable ; but when the ex- 
hilaration which accompanies a first residence in Lon- 
don, the sensation of standing on a pivot of the world, 
had passed, their lives promised to be somewhat duller 
than when, at despised Exonbury, they had enjoyed a 
nodding acquaintance with three-fourths of the town. 
Mr. Millborne did not criticise his wife ; he could not. 
Whatever defects of hardness and acidity his original 
treatment and the lapse of years might have developed 
in her, his sense of a realized idea, of a re-established 
self-satisfaction, was always thrown into the scale on 
her side, and outweighed all objections. 


FOR CONSCIENCE’ SAKE 


35 


It was about a month after their settlement in town 
that the household decided to spend a w T eek at a 
watering-place in the Isle of Wight, and while there 
the Rev. Percival Cope (the young curate aforesaid) 
came to see them, Frances in particular. No formal 
engagement of the young pair had been announced as 
yet, but it was clear that their mutual understanding 
could not end in anything but marriage without griev- 
ous disappointment to one of the parties at least. Not 
that Frances was sentimental. She was rather of the 
imperious sort, indeed ; and, to say all, the young girl 
had not fulfilled her father’s expectations of her. But 
he hoped and worked for her welfare as sincerely as 
any father could do. 

Mr. Cope was introduced to the new head of the 
family, and stayed with them in the island two or 
three days. On the last day of his visit they decided 
to venture on a two hours’ sail in one of the small 
yachts which lay there for hire. The trip had not 
progressed far before all except the curate found 
that sailing in a breeze did not quite agree with 
them ; but as he seemed to enjoy the experience, the 
other three bore their condition as well as they could 
without grimace or complaint, till the young man, ob- 
serving their discomfort, gave immediate directions to 
tack about. On the way back to port they sat silent, 
facing each other. 

Nausea in such circumstances, like midnight watch- 
ing, fatigue, trouble, fright, has this marked effect 
upon the countenance — that it often brings out strong- 
ly the divergences of the individual from the norm of 
his race, accentuating superficial peculiarities to rad- 
ical distinctions. Unexpected physiognomies will un- 
cover themselves at these times in well-known faces ; 
the aspect becomes invested with the spectral presence 
of entombed and forgotten ancestors ; and family lin- 


36 


life’s little ironies 


eaments of special or exclusive cast, which in ordinary 
moments are masked by a stereotyped expression and 
mien, start up with crude insistence to the view. 

Frances, sitting beside her mother’s husband, with 
Mr. Cope opposite, was naturally enough much re- 
garded by the curate during the tedious sail home ; 
at first with sympathetic smiles. Then, as the middle- 
aged father and his child grew each gray-faced, as 
the pretty blush of Frances disintegrated into spotty 
stains, and the soft rotundities of her features diverged 
from their familiar and reposeful beauty into elemen- 
tal lines, Cope was gradually struck with the resem- 
blance between a pair in their discomfort who in their 
ease presented nothing to the eye in common. Mr. 
Millborne and Frances in their indisposition were 
strangely, startlingly alike. 

The inexplicable fact absorbed Cope’s attention 
quite. He forgot to smile at Frances, to hold her 
hand ; and when they touched the shore he remained 
sitting for some moments like a man in a trance. 

As they went homeward, and recovered their com- 
plexions and contours, the similarities one by one dis- 
appeared, and Frances and Mr. Millborne were again 
masked by the commonplace differences of sex and 
age. It was as if, during the voyage, a mysterious 
veil had been lifted, temporarily revealing a strange 
pantomime of the past. 

During the evening he said to her, casually: “Is 
your step-father a cousin of your mother, dear Fran- 
ces ?” 

“ Oh no,” said she ; “ there is no relationship. He 
was only an old friend of hers. Why did you suppose 
such a thing ?” 

He did not explain, and the next morning started to 
resume his duties at Ivell. 

Cope was an honest young fellow, and shrewd 


FOR CONSCIENCE’ SAKE 


37 


withal. At home in his quiet rooms in St. Peter’s Street, 
I veil, he pondered long and unpleasantly on the reve- 
lations of the cruise. The tale it told was distinct 
enough, and for the first time his position was an un- 
comfortable one. He had met the Franklands at Ex- 
onbury as parishioners, had been attracted by Frances, 
and had floated thus far into an engagement which 
was indefinite only because of his inability to marry 
just yet. The Franklands’ past had apparently con- 
tained mysteries, and it did not coincide with his 
judgment to marry into a family whose mystery was 
of the sort suggested. So he sat and sighed between 
his reluctance to lose Frances and his natural dislike 
of forming a connection with people whose antece- 
dents would not bear the strictest investigation. 

A passionate lover of the old-fashioned sort might 
possibly never have halted to weigh these doubts ; but 
though he was in the Church, Cope’s affections were 
fastidious — distinctly tempered with the alloys of the 
century’s decadence. He delayed writing to Frances 
for some while, simply because he could not tune him- 
self up to enthusiasm when worried by suspicions of 
such a kind. 

Meanwhile the Millbornes had returned to London, 
and Frances was growing anxious. In talking to her 
mother of Cope she had innocently alluded to his curi- 
ous inquiry if her mother and her step - father were 
connected by any tie of cousinship. Mrs. Millborne 
made her repeat the words. Frances did so, and 
watched with inquisitive eyes their effect upon her 
elder. 

“ What is there so startling in his inquiry, then ?” 
she asked. “ Can it have anything to do with his not 
writing to me ?” 

Her mother flinched, but did not inform her, and 
Frances also was now drawn within the atmosphere of 


38 


life’s little ironies 


suspicion. That night, when standing by chance out- 
side the chamber of her parents, she heard for the first 
time their voices engaged in a sharj) altercation. 

The apple of discord had, indeed, been dropped into 
the house of the Millbornes. The scene within the 
chamber door was Mrs. Millborne standing before her 
dressing-table, looking across to her husband in the 
dressing-room adjoining, where he was sitting down, 
his eyes fixed on the floor. 

“ Why did you come and disturb my life a second 
time?” she harshly asked. “ Why did you pester me 
with your conscience till I was driven to accept you 
to get rid of your importunity ? Frances and I were 
doing well : the one desire of my life was that she 
should marry that good young man. And now the 
match is broken off by your cruel interference! Why 
did you show yourself in my world again, and raise 
this scandal upon my hard-won respectability — won 
by such weary years of labor as none will ever know!” 
She bent her face upon the table and wept passionately. 

There was no reply from Mr. Millborne. Frances 
lay awake nearly all that night, and when at breakfast- 
time the next morning still no letter appeared from 
Mr. Cope, she entreated her mother to go to Ivell and 
see if the young man were ill. 

Mrs. Millborne went, returning the same day. Fran- 
ces, anxious and haggard, met her at the station. 

Was all well? Her mother could not say it was; 
though he was not ill. 

One thing she had found out — that it was a mistake 
to hunt up a man when his inclinations were to hold 
aloof. Returning with her mother in the cab, Frances 
insisted upon knowing what the mystery was which 
plainly had alienated her lover. The precise words 
which had been spoken at the interview with him that 
day at Ivell Mrs. Millborne could not be induced to 


FOR CONSCIENCE’ SAKE 


39 


repeat; but thus far she admitted — that the estrange- 
ment was fundamentally owing to Mr. Millborne hav- 
ing sought her out and married her. 

“ And why did he seek you out — and why were you 
obliged to marry him?” asked the distressed girl. 
Then the evidences pieced themselves together in her 
acute mind, and, her color gradually rising, she asked 
her mother if what they pointed to was indeed the 
fact. Her mother admitted that it was. 

A flush of mortification succeeded to the flush of 
shame upon the young woman’s face. How could a 
scrupulously correct clergyman and lover like Mr. 
Cope ask her to be his wife after this discovery of her 
irregular birth ? She covered her eyes with her hands 
in a silent despair. 

In the presence of Mr. Millborne they at first sup- 
pressed their anguish. But by-and-by their feelings 
got the better of them, and when he was asleep in his 
chair after dinner, Mrs. Millborne’s irritation broke 
out. The imbittered Frances joined her in reproach- 
ing the man who had come as the spectre to their in- 
tended feast of Hymen, and turned its promise to 
ghastly failure. 

“ Why were you so weak, mother, as to admit such 
an enemy to your house — one so obviously your evil 
genius — much less accept him as a husband, after 
so long? If you had only told me all, I could have 
advised you better ! But I suppose I have no right to 
reproach him, bitter as I feel, and even though he has 
blighted my life forever !” 

“ Frances, I did hold out; I saw it was a mistake to 
have any more to say to a man who had been such an 
unmitigated curse to me. But he would not listen; 
he kept on about his conscience and mine till I was 
bewildered, and said, ‘Yes.’ . , . Bringing us away from 
a quiet town where we were known and respected— 


40 


life’s little ironies 


what an ill-considered thing it was ! Oh, the content 
of those days ! We had society there, people in our 
own position, who did not expect more of us than we 
expected of them. Here, where there is so much, there 
is nothing ! He said London society was so bright 
and brilliant that it would be like a new world. It 
may be to those who are in it; but what is that to us 
two lonely women ? we only see it flashing past ! . . . 
Oh, the fool, the fool that I was !” 

Now Millborne was not so soundly asleep as to pre- 
vent his hearing these animadversions that were almost 
execrations, and many more of the same sort. As 
there was no peace for him at home, he went again to 
his club, where, since his reunion with Leonora, he had 
seldom if ever been seen. But the shadow of the 
troubles in his household interfered with his comfort 
here also; he could not, as formerly, settle down into 
his favorite chair with the evening paper, reposeful in 
the celibate’s sense that where he was his world’s cen- 
tre had its fixture. His world was now an ellipse, 
with a dual centrality, of which his own was not the 
major. 

The young curate of Ivell still held aloof, tantaliz- 
ing Frances by his elusiveness. Plainly he was wait- 
ing upon events. Millborne bore the reproaches of 
his wife and daughter almost in silence, but by de- 
grees he grew meditative, as if revolving a new idea. 
The bitter cry about blighting their existence at 
length became so impassioned that one day Millborne 
calmly proposed to return again to the country ; not 
necessarily to Exonbury, but, if they were willing, to 
a little old manor-house which he had found was to 
be let, standing a mile from Mr. Cope’s town of Ivell. 

They were surprised, and, despite their view of 
him as the bringer of ill, were disposed to accede. 
" Though I suppose,” said Mrs. Millborne to him, " it 


FOR CONSCIENCE 1 SAKE 


41 


will end in Mr. Cope’s asking you flatly about the 
past, and your being compelled to tell him, which may 
dash all my hopes for Frances. She gets more and 
more like you every day, particularly when she is in 
a bad temper. People will see you together and no- 
tice it, and I don’t know what may come of it !” 

“ I don’t think they will see us together,” he said; 
but he entered into no argument when she insisted 
otherwise. The removal was eventually resolved on ; 
the town - house was disposed of, and again came the 
invasion by furniture-men and vans, till all the mova- 
bles and servants were whisked away. He sent his 
wife and daughter to a hotel while this was going on, 
taking two or three journeys himself to Ivell to su- 
perintend the refixing, and the improvement of the 
grounds. When all was done he returned to them in 
town. 

The house was ready for their reception, he told 
them, and there only remained the journey. He ac- 
companied them and their personal luggage to the 
station only, having, he said, to remain in town a short 
time on business with his lawyer. They went, dubi- 
ous and discontented, for the much - loved Cope had 
made no sign. 

“If we were going down to live here alone,” said 
Mrs. Millborne to her daughter in the train ; “ and 
there was no intrusive telltale presence ! But let it 
be !” 

The house was a lovely little place in a grove of 
elms, and they liked it much. The first person to call 
upon them as new residents was Mr. Cope. He was 
delighted to find that they had come so near, and 
(though he did not say this) meant to live in such 
excellent style. He had not, however, resumed the 
manner of a lover. 

“ Your father spoils all !” murmured Mrs. Millborne. 


42 


life’s little ieonies 


But three days later she received a letter from her 
husband which caused her no small degree of aston- 
ishment. It was written from Boulogne. 

It began with a long explanation of settlements of 
his property, in w T hich he had been engaged since 
their departure. The chief feature in the business 
was that Mrs. Melbourne found herself the absolute 
owner of a comfortable sum in personal estate, and 
Frances of a life-interest in a larger sum, the princi- 
pal to be afterwards divided among her children, if 
she had any. The remainder of his letter ran as here- 
under : 

“I have learned that there are some derelictions of duty 
which cannot be blotted out by tardy accomplishment. Our 
evil actions do not remain isolated in the past, waiting 'only to 
be reversed; like locomotive plants they spread and reroot, 
till to destroy the original stem has no material effect in killing 
them. I made a mistake in searching you out ; I admit it ; 
whatever the remedy may be in such cases it is not marriage, 
and the best thing for you and me is that you do not see me 
more. You had better not seek me, for you will not be likely 
to find me ; you are well provided for, and we may do our- 
selves more harm than good by meeting again. F. M.” 

Millborne, in short, disappeared from that day for- 
ward. But a searching inquiry would have revealed 
that, soon after the Millbornes went to Ivell, an Eng- 
lishman who did not give the name of Millborne 
took up his residence in Brussels ; a man who might 
have been recognized by Mrs. Millborne if she had 
met him. One afternoon in the ensuing summer, 
when this gentleman was looking over the English 
papers, he saw the announcement of Miss Frances 
Frankland’s marriage. She had become the Rev. Mrs. 
Cope. 

“ Thank God !” said the gentleman. 

But his momentary satisfaction was far from being 


FOR CONSCIENCE SAKE 


43 


happiness. As he formerly had been weighted with 
a bad conscience, so now was he burdened with the 
heavy thought which oppressed Antigone, that by 
honorable observance of a rite he had obtained for 
himself the reward of dishonorable laxity. Occa- 
sionally he had to be helped to his lodgings by his 
servant from the cercle he frequented, through having 
imbibed a little too much liquor to be able to take 
care of himself. But he was harmless, and even when 
he had been drinking said little. 


March, 1891. 


A TKAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


I 

The shouts of the village-boys came in at the wim 
dow, accompanied by broken laughter from loungers at 
the inn door ; but the brothers Halborough worked on. 

They were sitting in a bedroom of the master-mill- 
wright’s house, engaged in the untutored reading of 
Greek and Latin. It was no tale of Homeric blows 
and knocks, Argonautic voyaging, or Theban family 
woe that inflamed their imaginations and spurred them 
onward. They were plodding away at the Greek Tes- 
tament, immersed in a chapter of the idiomatic and 
difficult Epistle to the Hebrews. 

The dog -day sun in its decline reached the low 
ceiling with slanting sides, and the shadows of the 
great goat’s-willow swayed and interchanged upon the 
walls like a spectral army manoeuvring. The open 
casement which admitted the remoter sounds now 
brought the voice of some one close at hand. It was 
their sister, a pretty girl of fourteen, who stood in the 
court below. 

“ I can see the tops of your heads ! What’s the 
use of staying up there? I like you not to go out 
with the street - boys ; but do come and play with 
me !” 

They treated her as an inadequate interlocutor, and 


A TKAGEDY OP TWO AMBITIONS 


45 


put her off with some slight word. She went away dis- 
appointed. Presently there was a dull noise of heavy 
footsteps at the side of the house, and one of the 
brothers sat up. “ I fancy I hear him coming,” he 
murmured, his eyes on the window. 

A man in the light drab clothes of an old-fashioned 
country tradesman approached from round the corner, 
reeling as he came. The elder son flushed with anger, 
rose from his books, and descended the stairs. The 
younger sat on, till, after the lapse of a few minutes, 
his brother re-entered the room. 

“ Did Rosa see him ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Nor anybody ?” 

“ No.” 

“ What have you done with him ?” 

“He’s in the straw-shed. I got him in with some 
trouble, and he has fallen asleep. I thought this would 
be the explanation of his absence ! No stones dressed 
for Miller Kench, the great wheel of the saw -mill 
waiting for new float-boards, even the poor folk not 
able to get their wagons wheeled.” 

“ What is the use of poring over this !” said the 
younger, shutting up Donnegan’s Lexicon with a slap. 
“ Oh, if we had only been able to keep mother’s seven 
hundred pounds, what we could have done !” 

“ How well she had estimated the sum necessary ! 
Three hundred and fifty each, she thought. And I 
have no doubt that we could have done it on that with 
care.” 

This loss of the seven hundred pounds was the sharp 
thorn of their crown. It was a sum which their mother 
had amassed with great exertion and self-denial, by 
adding to a chance legacy such other small amounts 
as she could lay hands on from time to time ; and she 
had intended with the hoard to indulge the dear wish 


46 


life’s little ironies 


of her heart — that of sending her sons, Joshua and 
Cornelius, to one of the universities, having been in- 
formed that from three hundred to three hundred and 
fifty each might carry them through their terms with 
such great economy as she knew she could trust them 
to practise. But she had died a year or two before 
this time, worn out by too keen a strain towards these 
ends ; and the money, coming unreservedly into the 
hands of their father, had been nearly dissipated. 
With its exhaustion went all opportunity and hope of 
a university degree for the sons. 

“It drives me mad when I think of it,” said Joshua, 
the elder. “And here we work and work in our own 
bungling way, and the utmost we can hope for is a 
term of years as national school-masters, and possible 
admission to a theological college, and ordination as 
despised licentiates.” 

The anger of the elder was reflected as simple sad- 
ness in the face of the other. “We can preach the 
gospel as well without a hood on our surplices as with 
one,” he said, with feeble consolation. 

“ Preach the gospel — true,” said Joshua, with a slight 
pursing of mouth. “ But we can’t rise.” 

“ Let us make the best of it, and grind on.” 

The other was silent, and they drearily bent over 
their books again. 

The cause of all this gloom, the millwright Hal- 
borough, now snoring in the shed, had been a thriving 
master-machinist, notwithstanding his free and careless 
disposition, till a taste for a more than adequate quan- 
tity of strong liquor took hold of him ; since when his 
habits had interfered with his business sadly. Already 
millers went elsewhere for their gear, and only one 
set of hands was now kept going, though there were 
formerly two. Already he found a difficulty in meet- 
ing his men at the week’s end, and though they had 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


47 


been reduced in number, there was barely enough work 
to do for those who remained. 

The sun dropped lower and vanished, the shouts 
of the village children ceased to resound, darkness 
cloaked the students’ bedroom, and all the scene out- 
wardly breathed peace. None knew of the fevered 
youthful ambitions that throbbed in two breasts with- 
in the quiet creeper-covered walls of the millwright’s 
house. 

In a few months the brothers left the village of their 
birth to enter themselves as students in a training 
college for school-masters ; first having placed their 
young sister Rosa under as efficient a tuition at a 
fashionable watering-place as the means at their dis- 
posal could command. 


II 

A man in semi - clerical dress was walking along 
the road which led from the railway station into a 
provincial town. As he walked he read persistently, 
only looking up once now and then to see that he was 
keeping on the foot-track and to avoid other passen- 
gers. At those moments, whoever had known the 
former students at the millwright’s would have per- 
ceived that one of them, Joshua Halborough, was the 
peripatetic reader here. 

What had been simple force in the youth’s face was 
energized judgment in the man’s. His character was 
gradually writing itself out in his countenance. That 
he was watching his own career with deeper and 
deeper interest, that he continually “heard his days 
before him,” and cared to hear little else, might have 
been hazarded from what was seen there. His ambi- 


48 


life’s little ironies 


tions were, in truth, passionate, yet controlled ; so 
that the germs of many more plans than ever blos- 
somed to maturity had place in him ; and forward 
visions were kept purposely in twilight to avoid dis- 
traction. 

Events so far had been encouraging. Shortly after 
assuming the mastership of his first school he had ob- 
tained an introduction to the bishop of a diocese far 
from his native county, who had looked upon him as a 
promising young man and taken him in hand. He was 
now in the second year of his residence at the theo- 
logical college of the cathedral town, and would soon 
be presented for ordination. 

He entered the town, turned into a back street, 
and then into a yard, keeping his book before him 
till he set foot under the arch of the latter place. 
Hound the arch was written “National School,” and 
the stone-work of the jambs was worn away as nothing 
but boys and the waves of the ocean will wear it. He 
was soon amid the sing-song accents of the scholars. 

His brother Cornelius, who was the school-master 
here, laid down the pointer with which he was directing 
attention to the capes of Europe, and came forward. 

“That’s his brother Jos!” whispered one of the 
sixth - standard boys. “ He’s going to be a pa’son. 
He’s now at college.” 

“Corney is going to be one, too, when he’s saved 
enough money,” said another. 

After greeting his brother, whom he had not seen 
for several months, the junior began to explain his 
system of teaching geography. 

But Halborough the elder took no interest in the 
subject. “ How about your own studies ?” he asked. 
“Did you get the books I sent ?” 

Cornelius had received them, and he related what 
he was doing, 


A TRAGEDY OP TWO AMBITIONS 


49 


“Mind you work in the morning. What time do 
you get up ?” 

The younger replied : “ Half-past five.” 

“Half-past four is not a minute too soon this time 
of the year. There is no time like the morning for 
construing. I don’t know why, but when I feel even 
too dreary to read a novel I can translate — there is 
something mechanical about it, I suppose. Now, Cor- 
nelius, you are rather behindhand, and have some heavy 
reading before you if you mean to get out of this next 
Christmas.” 

“I am afraid I have.” 

“We must soon sound the bishop. I am sure you 
will get a title without difficulty when he has heard 
all. The subdean, the principal of my college, says 
that the best plan will be for you to come there when 
his lordship is present at an examination, and he’ll get 
you a personal interview with him. Mind you make 
a good impression upon him. I found in my case that 
that was everything, and doctrine almost nothing. 
You’ll do for a deacon, Corney, if not for a priest.” 

The younger remained thoughtful. “Have you 
heard from Rosa lately ?” he asked ; “ I had a letter 
this morning.” 

“Yes. The little minx writes rather too often. 
She is homesick — though Brussels must be an attrac- 
tive place enough. But she must make the most of 
her time over there. I thought a year would be 
enough for her, after that high-class school at Sand- 
bourne; but I have decided to give her two, and make 
a good job of it, expensive as the establishment is.” 

Their two rather harsh faces had softened directly 
they began to speak of their sister, whom they loved 
more ambitiously than they loved themselves. 

“But where is the money to come from, Joshua?” 

“I have already got it.” He looked round, and 
4 


50 


life’s little ironies 


finding that some boys were near withdrew a few 
steps. “ I have borrowed it at five per cent, from the 
farmer who used to occupy the farm next our field. 
You remember him.” 

“But about paying him?” 

“I shall pay him by degrees out of my stipend. 
No, Cornelius, it was no use to do the thing by halves. 
She promises to be a most attractive, not to say beau- 
tiful, girl. I have seen that for years; and if her face 
is not her fortune, her face and her brains together 
will be, if I observe and contrive aright. That she 
should be, every inch of her, an accomplished and 
refined woman, was indispensable for the fulfilment 
of her destiny, and for moving onward and upward 
with us; and she’ll do it, you will see. I’d half starve 
myself rather than take her away from that school 
now.” 

They looked round the school they were in. To 
Cornelius it was natural and familiar enough; but to 
Joshua, with his limited human sympathies, who had 
just dropped in from a superior sort of place, the sight 
jarred unpleasantly, as being that of something he 
had left behind. “ I shall be glad when you are out 
of this,” he said, “ and in your pulpit, and well through 
your first sermon.” 

“You may as well say, inducted into my fat living, 
while you are about it.” 

“ Ah, well ; don’t think lightly of the Church. 
There’s a fine work for any man of energy in the 
Church, as you’ll find,” he said, fervidly. “ Torrents 
of infidelity to be stemmed, new views of old sub- 
jects to be expounded, truths in spirit to be substitu- 
ted for truths in the letter. . . .” He lapsed into rev- 
erie with the vision of his career, persuading himself 
that it was ardor for Christianity which spurred him 
on, and not pride of place. He had shouldered a body 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


51 


of doctrine, and was prepared to defend it tooth and 
nail, solely for the honor and glory that warriors 
win. 

“ If the Church is elastic, and stretches to the shape 
of the time, she’ll last, I suppose,” said Cornelius. “If 
not — • Only think, I bought a copy of Paley’s Evi- 
dences, best edition, broad margins, excellent preserva- 
tion, at a book-stall the other day for — ninepence; and 
I thought that at this rate Christianity must be in 
rather a bad way.” 

“No, no!” said the other, almost angrily. “It only 
shows that such defences are no longer necessary. 
Men’s eyes can see the truth without extraneous as- 
sistance. Besides, we are in for Christianity, and must 
stick to her, whether or no. I am just now going 
right through Pusey’s Library of the Fathers .” 

“ You’ll be a bishop, Joshua, before you have done!” 

“ Ah !” said the other, bitterly, shaking his head. 
“Perhaps I might have been — I might have been! 
But where is my D.D. or LL.D. ? and how be a bish- 
op without that kind of appendage? Archbishop Til- 
lotson was the son of a Sowerby clothier, but he was 
sent to Clare College. To hail Oxford or Cambridge 
as alma mater is not for me — for us ! My God ! when 
I think of what we should have been — what fair prom- 
ise has been blighted by that cursed, worthless — ” 

“ Hush, hush ! . . . But I feel it, too, as much as you. 
I have seen it more forcibly lately. You would have 
obtained your degree long before this time — possibly 
fellowship — and I should have been on ray way to 
mine.” 

“Don’t talk of it,” said the other. “We must do 
the best we can.” 

They looked out of the window sadly through the 
dusty panes, so high up that only the sky was visible. 
By degrees the haunting trouble loomed again, and 


53 life’s little ironies 

Cornelius broke the silence with a whisper: “He has 
called on me !” 

The living pulses died on Joshua’s face, which grew 
arid as a clinker. “ When was that?” he asked, quickly. 

“ Last week.” 

“How did he get here — so many miles?” 

“ Came by railway. He came to ask for money.” 

“Ah !” 

“ He says he will call on you.” 

Joshua replied resignedly. The theme of their con- 
versation spoiled his buoyancy for that afternoon. He 
returned in the evening, Cornelius accompanying him 
to the station; but he did not read in the train which 
took him back to the Fountall Theological College, as 
he had done on the way out. That ineradicable trouble 
still remained as a squalid spot in the expanse of his 
life. He sat with the other students in the cathedral 
choir next day ; and the recollection of the trouble 
obscured the purple splendor thrown by the panes 
upon the floor. 

It was afternoon. All was as still in the close as a 
cathedral green can be between the Sunday services, 
and the incessant cawing of the rooks was the only 
sound. Joshua Halborough had finished his ascetic 
lunch, and had gone into the library, where he stood 
for a few moments looking out of the large window 
facing the green. He saw walking slowly across it a 
man in a fustian coat and a battered white hat with a 
much-ruffled nap, having upon his arm a tall gypsy 
woman wearing long brass ear-rings. The man was 
staring quizzically at the west front of the cathedral, 
and Halborough recognized in him the form and feat- 
ures of his father. Who the woman was he knew not. 
Almost as soon as Joshua became conscious of these 
things, the subdean, who was also the principal of the 
college, and of whom the young man stood in more 


A TBAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


53 


awe than of the bishop himself, emerged from the 
gate and entered a path across the close. The pair 
met the dignitary, and to Joshua’s horror his father 
turned and addressed the subdean. 

What passed between them he could not tell. But 
as he stood in a cold sweat he saw his father place his 
hand familiarly on the subdean’s shoulder; the shrink- 
ing response of the latter, and his quick withdrawal, 
told his feeling. The woman seemed to say nothing, 
but when the subdean had passed by they came on 
towards the college gate. 

Halborough flew along the corridor and out at a 
side door, so as to intercept them before they could 
reach the front entrance, for which they were making. 
He caught them behind a clump of laurel. 

“By Jerry, here’s the very chap ! Well, you’re a 
fine fellow, Jos, never to send your father as much as 
a twist o’ baccy on such an occasion, and to leave him 
to travel all these miles to find ye out !” 

“First, who is this?” said Joshua Halborough, with 
pale dignity, waving his hand towards the buxom 
woman with the great ear-rings. 

“ Dammy, the mis’ess ! Your step-mother. Didn’t 
you know I’d married? She helped me home from 
market one night, and we came to terms, and struck 
the bargain. Didn’t we, Selinar ?” 

“ Oi, by the great Lord an’ we did !” simpered the 
lady. 

“Well, what sort of a place is this you are living 
in ?” asked the millwright. “ A kind of house of cor- 
rection, apparently.” 

Joshua listened abstractedly, his features set to res- 
ignation. Sick at heart he was going to ask them if 
they were in want of any necessary, any meal, when 
his father cut him short by saying, “Why, we’ve called 
to ask ye to come round and take pot-luck with us at 


54 


life’s little ironies 


the Cock and Bottle, where we’ve put up for the day, 
on our way to see mis’ess’s friends at Binegar Fair, 
where they’ll be lying under canvas for a night or 
two. As for the victuals at the Cock I can’t testify 
to ’em at all ; but for the drink, they’ve the rarest 
drop of Old Tom that I’ve tasted for many a year.” 

“ Thanks ; but I am a teetotaler, and I have 
lunched,” said Joshua, who could fully believe his 
father’s testimony to the gin from the odor of his 
breath. “You see we have to observe regular habits 
here, and I couldn’t be seen at the Cock and Bottle 
just now.” 

“ Oh, dammy, then don’t come, your reverence. Per- 
haps you won’t mind standing treat for those who can 
be seen there.” 

“ Not a penny,” said the younger, firmly. “ You’ve 
had enough already.” 

“Thank you for nothing. By -the -bye, who was 
that spindle - legged, shoe - buckled parson feller we 
met by now ? He seemed to think we should poison 
him.” 

Joshua remarked coldly that it was the principal of 
his college, guardedly inquiring, “Did you tell him 
whom you were come to see ?” 

His father did not reply. He and his strapping 
gypsy wife — if she were his wife — stayed no longer, 
and disappeared in the direction of the High Street. 
Joshua Halborough went back to the library. De- 
termined as was his nature, he wept hot tears upon 
the books, and was immeasurably more wretched that 
afternoon than the unwelcome millwright. In the 
evening he sat down and wrote a letter to his brother, 
in which, after stating what had happened, and expa- 
tiating upon this new disgrace in the gypsy wife, he 
propounded a plan for raising money sufficient to in- 
duce the couple to emigrate to Canada. “ It is our 


A TRAGEDY OP TWO AMBITIONS 


55 


only chance,” he said. “ The case as it stands is mad- 
dening. For a successful painter, sculptor, musician, 
author, who takes society by storm, it is no drawback; 
it is sometimes even a romantic recommendation to 
hail from outcasts and profligates. But for a clergy- 
man of the Church of England ! Cornelius, it is fatal! 
To succeed in the Church, people must believe in you, 
tirst of all, as a gentleman, secondly as a man of means, 
thirdly as a scholar, fourthly as a preacher, fifthly 
perhaps as a Christian — but always first as a gentle- 
man, with all their heart and soul and strength. I 
would have faced the fact of being a small machinist’s 
son, and have taken my chance, if he’d been in any 
sense respectable and decent. The essence of Chris- 
tianity is humility, and by the help of God I would 
have brazened it out. But this terrible vagabondage 
and disreputable connection ! If he does not accept 
my terms and leave the country, it will extinguish us 
and kill me. For how can we live and relinquish our 
high aim and bring down our dear sister Rosa to the 
level of a gypsy’s step-daughter?” 


Ill 

There was excitement in the parish of Narrobourne 
one day. The congregation had just come out from 
morning service, and the whole conversation was of 
the new curate, Mr. Halborough, who had officiated 
for the first time, in the absence of the rector. 

Never before had the feeling of the villagers ap- 
proached a level which could be called excitement on 
such a matter as this. The droning which had been 
the rule in that quiet old place for a century seemed 
ended at last. They repeated the text to each other 


56 


life’s little ironies 


as a refrain : “ O Lord, be thou my helper !” . l>fot 
within living memory till to-day had the subject of 
the sermon formed the topic of conversation from the 
church door to church-yard gate, to the exclusion of 
personal remarks on those who had been present, and 
on the week’s news in general. 

The thrilling periods of the preacher hung about 
their minds all that day. The parish being steeped 
in indifferentism, it happened that when the youths 
and maidens, middle - aged and old people, who had 
attended church that morning, recurred as by a fas- 
cination to what Halborough had said, they did so 
more or less indirectly, and even with the subterfuge 
of a light laugh that was not real, so great was their 
shyness under the novelty of their sensations. 

What was more curious than that these unconven- 
tional villagers should have been excited by a preacher 
of a new school after forty years of familiarity with 
the old hand who had had charge of their souls, was 
the effect of Halborough’s address upon the occupants 
of the manor-house pew, including the owner of the 
estate. These thought they knew how to discount 
the mere sensational sermon, how to minimize flash 
oratory to its bare proportions ; but they had yielded 
like the rest of the assembly to the charm of the new- 
comer. 

Mr. Fellmer, the land-owner, was a young widower 
whose mother, still in the prime of life, had returned 
to her old position in the family mansion since the 
death of her son’s wife in the year after her marriage, 
at the birth of a fragile little girl. From the date of 
his loss to the present time, Fellmer had led an inac- 
tive existence in the seclusion of the parish ; a lack of 
motive seemed to leave him listless. He had gladly 
reinstated his mother in the gloomy house, and his 
main occupation now lay in stewarding his estate, 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


57 


which was not large. Mrs. Fellmer, who had sat be- 
side him under Halborough this morning, was a cheer- 
ful, straightforward woman, who did her marketing 
and her alms-giving in person ; was fond of old-fash- 
ioned flowers, and walked about the village on very- 
wet days visiting the parishioners. These, the only 
two great ones of Narrobourne, were impressed by 
Joshua’s eloquence as much as the cottagers. 

Halborough had been briefly introduced to them on 
his arrival some days before, and, their interest being 
kindled, they waited a few moments till he came out 
of the vestry, to walk down the church-yard path with 
him. Mrs. Fellmer spoke warmly of the sermon, of 
the good -fortune of the parish in his advent, and 
hoped he had found comfortable quarters. 

Halborough, faintly flushing, said that he had ob- 
tained very fair lodgings in the roomy house of a 
farmer, whom he named. 

She feared he would find it very lonely, especially 
in the evenings, and hoped they would see a good 
deal of him. When would he dine with them ? Could 
he not come that day — it must be so dull for him the 
first Sunday evening in country lodgings ? 

Halborough replied that it would give him much 
pleasure, but that he feared he must decline. “ I am 
not altogether alone,” he said, “ My sister, who has 
just returned from Brussels, and who felt, as you do, 
that I should be rather dismal by myself, has accom- 
panied me hither to stay a few days till she has put 
my rooms in order and set me going. She was too 
fatigued to come to church, and is waiting for me 
now at the farm.” 

“ Oh, but bring your sister — that will be still bet- 
ter ! I shall be delighted to know her. How I wish 
I had been aware ! Do tell her, please, that we had 
no idea of her presence.” 


58 


life’s little ironies 


Halborough assured Mrs. Fellmer that he would 
certainly bear the message ; but as to her coming he 
was not so sure. The real truth was, however, that 
the matter would be decided by him, Rosa having an 
almost filial respect for his wishes. But he was un- 
certain as to the state of her wardrobe, and had de- 
termined that she should not enter the manor-house at 
a disadvantage that evening, when there would prob- 
ably be plenty of opportunities in the future of her 
doing so becomingly. 

He walked to the farm in long strides. This, then, 
was the outcome of his first morning’s work as curate 
here. Things had gone fairly well with him. He had 
been ordained; he was in a comfortable parish, where 
he would exercise almost sole supervision, the rector 
being infirm. He had made a deep impression at 
starting, and the absence of a hood seemed to have 
done him no harm. Moreover, by considerable per- 
suasion and payment, his father and the dark woman 
had been shipped off to Canada, where they were not 
likely to interfere greatly with his interests. 

Rosa came out to meet him. “Ah! you should 
have gone to church like a good girl,” he said. 

“Yes — I wished I had afterwards. But I do so 
hate church as a rule that even your preaching was 
underestimated in my mind. It was too bad of me !” 

The girl who spoke thus playfully was fair, tall, 
and sylph-like, in a muslin dress, and with just the 
coquettish desinvolture which an English girl brings 
home from abroad, and loses again after a few months 
of native life. Joshua was the reverse of playful; the 
world was too important a concern for him to indulge 
in light moods. He told her in decided, practical 
phraseology of the invitation. 

“ Now, Rosa, we must go — that’s settled — if you’ve 
a dress that can be made fit to wear all on the hop like 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


59 


this. You didn’t, of course, think of bringing an 
evening dress to such an out-of-the-way place ?” 

But Rosa had come from the wrong city to be 
caught napping in those matters. “ Yes, I did,” said 
she. “ One never knows what may turn up.” 

“ Well done! Then off we go at seven.” 

The evening drew on, and at dusk they started on 
foot, Rosa pulling up the edge of her skirt under her 
cloak out of the way of the dews, so that it formed a 
great wind-bag all round her, and carrying her satin 
shoes under her arm. Joshua would not let her wait 
till she got in-doors before changing them, as she pro- 
posed, but insisted on her performing that operation 
under a tree, so that they might enter as if they had 
not walked. He was nervously formal about such 
trifles, while Rosa took the whole proceeding — walk, 
dressing, dinner, and all — as a pastime. To Joshua it 
was a serious step in life. 

A more unexpected kind of person for a curate’s 
sister was never presented at a dinner. The surprise 
of Mrs. Fellmer was unconcealed. She had looked 
forward to a Dorcas, or Martha, or Rhoda at the out- 
side, and a shade of misgiving crossed her face. It 
was possible that, had the young lady accompanied 
her brother to church, there would have been no din- 
ing at Harrobourne House that day. 

Hot so with the young widower, her son. He re- 
sembled a sleeper who had awaked in a summer noon 
expecting to find it only dawn. He could scarcely 
help stretching his arms and yawning in their faces, 
so strong was his sense of being suddenly aroused to 
an unforeseen thing. When they had sat down to table 
he at first talked to Rosa somewhat with the air of a 
ruler in the land; but the woman lurking in the ac- 
quaintance soon brought him to his level, and the girl 
from Brussels saw him looking at her mouth, her 


60 


life’s little ironies 


hands, her contour, as if he could not quite compre- 
hend how they got created ; then he dropped into the 
more satisfactory stage which discerns no particulars. 

He talked but little; she said much. The homeli- 
ness of the Fellmers, to her view, though they were 
regarded with such awe down here, quite disembar- 
rassed her. The squire had become so unpractised, 
had dropped so far into the shade during the last year 
or so of his life, that he had almost forgotten what 
the world contained till this evening reminded him. 
His mother, after her first moments of doubt, appeared 
to think that he must be left to his own guidance, and 
gave her attention to Joshua. 

With all his foresight and doggedness of aim, the 
result of that dinner exceeded Halborough’s expecta- 
tions. In weaving his ambitions he had viewed his 
sister Rosa as a slight, bright thing to be helped into 
notice by his abilities; but it now began to dawn upon 
him that the physical gifts of nature to her might do 
more for them both than nature’s intellectual gifts to 
himself. While he was patiently boring the tunnel 
Rosa seemed about to fly over the mountain. 

He wrote the next day to his brother, now occupy- 
ing his own old rooms in the theological college, tell- 
ing him exultingly of the unanticipated debut of Rosa 
at the manor-house. The next post brought him a 
reply of congratulation, dashed with the counteract- 
ing intelligence that his father did not like Canada — 
that his wife had deserted him, which made him feel 
so dreary that he thought of returning home. 

In his recent satisfaction at his own successes Joshua 
Halborough had wellnigh forgotten his chronic trou- 
ble — latterly screened by distance. But it now re- 
turned upon him ; he saw more in this brief announce- 
ment than his brother seemed to see. It was the cloud 
no bigger than a man’s hand. 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


61 


IY 

The following December, a day or two before 
Christmas, Mrs. Fellmer and her son were walking up 
and down the broad gravel path which bordered the 
east front of the house. Till within the last half-hour 
the morning had been a drizzling one, and they had 
just emerged for a short turn before luncheon. 

“You see, dear mother,” the son was saying, “it is 
the peculiarity of my position which makes her appear 
to me in such a desirable light. When you consider 
how I have been crippled at starting, how my life has 
been maimed ; that I feel anything like publicity dis- 
tasteful, that I have no political ambition, and that 
my chief aim and hope lie in the education of the lit- 
tle thing Annie has left me, you must see how desira- 
ble a wife like Miss Halborough would be, to prevent 
my becoming a mere vegetable.” 

“If you adore her, I suppose you must have her,” 
replied his mother, with dry indirectness. “ But you’ll 
find that she will not be content to live on here as 
you do, giving her whole mind to a young child.” 

“ That’s just where we differ. Her very disquali- 
fication, that of being a nobody, as you call it, is her 
recommendation in my eyes. Her lack of influential 
connections limits her ambition. From what I know 
of her, a life in this place is all that she would wish 
for. She would never care to go outside the park 
gates if it were necessary to stay within.” 

“Being in love with her, Albert, and meaning to 
marry her, you invent your practical reasons to make 
the case respectable. Well, do as you will; I have 
no authority over you, so why should you consult me ? 
You mean to propose on this very occasion, no doubt. 

Don’t you, now ?” 

£ 


62 


life’s little ironies 


“By no means. I am merely revolving the idea in 
my mind. If on farther acquaintance she turns out 
to he as good as she has hitherto seemed — well, I shall 
see. Admit now, that you like her.” 

“ I readily admit it. She is very captivating at first 
sight. But as a step-mother to your child ! You seem 
mighty anxious, Albert, to get rid of me !” 

“Not at all. And I am not so reckless as you 
think. I don’t make up my mind in a hurry. But 
the thought having occurred to me, I mention it to 
you at once, mother. If you dislike it, say so.” 

“ I don’t say anything. I will try to make the best 
of it if you are determined. When does she come ?” 

“ To-morrow.” 

All this time there were great preparations in train 
at the curate’s, who was now a householder. Rosa, 
whose two or three weeks’ stay on two occasions ear- 
lier in the year had so affected the squire, was coming 
again, and at the same time her younger brother Cor- 
nelius, to make up a family party. Rosa, who jour- 
neyed from the Midlands, could not arrive till late in 
the evening, but Cornelius was to get there in the af- 
ternoon, Joshua going out to meet him in his walk 
across the fields from the railway. 

Everything being ready in Joshua’s modest abode 
he started on his way, his heart buoyant and thank- 
ful, if ever it was in his life. He was of such good 
report himself that his brother’s path into holy orders 
promised to be unexpectedly easy ; and he longed to 
compare experiences with him, even though there was 
on hand a more exciting matter still. From his youth 
he had held that, in old-fashioned country places, the 
Church conferred social prestige up to a certain point 
at a cheaper price than any other profession or pur- 
suit ; and events seemed to be proving him right. 

He had walked about half an hour when he saw 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 63 

Cornelius coming along the path, and in a few min- 
utes the two brothers met. The experiences of Cor- 
nelius had been less immediately interesting than 
those of Joshua, but his personal position was satis- 
factory, and there was nothing to account for the 
singularly subdued manner that he exhibited, which 
at first Joshua set down to the fatigue of over- 
study; and he proceeded to the subject of Rosa’s 
arrival in the evening, and the probable consequences 
of this her third visit. “Before next Easter she’ll 
be his wife, my boy,” said Joshua, with grave exulta- 
tion. 

Cornelius shook his head. “She comes too late,” 
he returned. 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“Look here.” He produced the Fountall paper, 
and placed his finger on a paragraph, which Joshua 
read. It appeared under the report of Petty Sessions, 
and was a commonplace case of disorderly conduct, in 
which a man was sent to prison for seven days for 
breaking windows in that town. 

“Well?” said Joshua. 

“ It happened during an evening that I was in the 
street ; and the offender is our father.” 

“ Not — how — I sent him more money on his prom- 
ising to stay in Canada?” 

“ He is home, safe enough.” Cornelius in the same 
gloomy tone gave the remainder of his information. 
He had witnessed the scene, unobserved of his father, 
and had heard him say that he was on his way to see 
his daughter, who was going to marry a rich gentle- 
man. The only good-fortune attending the untoward 
incident was that the millwright’s name had been 
printed as Joshua Alborough. 

“Beaten ! We are to be beaten on the eve of our 
expected victory !” said the elder brother. “ How 


64 


life’s little ikonies 


did he guess that Rosa was likely to marry ? Good 
Heaven ! Cornelius, you seem doomed to bring bad 
news always, do you not ?” 

“ I do,” said Cornelius. “ Poor Rosa !” 

It was almost in tears, so great was their heart-sick- 
ness and shame, that the brothers walked the remain- 
der of the way to Joshua’s dwelling. In the evening 
they set out to meet Rosa, bringing her to the village 
in a fly; and when she had come into the house, and 
was sitting down with them, they almost forgot their 
secret anxiety in contemplating her, who knew nothing 
about it. 

Next day the Fellmers came, and the two or three 
days after that were a lively time. That the squire 
was yielding to his impulses — making up his mind — 
there could be no doubt. On Sunday Cornelius read 
the lessons and Joshua preached. Mrs. Fellmer was 
quite maternal towards Rosa, and it appeared that 
she had decided to welcome the inevitable with a good 
grace. The pretty girl was to spend yet another after- 
noon with the elder lady, superintending some parish 
treat at the house in observance of Christmas, and 
afterwards to stay on to dinner, her brothers to fetch 
her in the evening. They were also invited to dine, 
but they could not accept owing to an engagement. 

The engagement was of a sombre sort. They were 
going to meet their father, who would that day be re- 
leased from Fountall Jail, and try to persuade him 
to keep away from Narrobourne. Every exertion was 
to be made to get him back to Canada, to his old home 
in the Midlands — anywhere, so that he would not im- 
pinge disastrously upon their courses, and blast their 
sister’s prospect of the auspicious marriage which was 
just then hanging in the balance. 

As soon as Rosa had been fetched away by her 
friends at the manor-house her brothers started on 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


65 


their expedition, without waiting for dinner or tea. 
Cornelius, to whom the millwright always addressed 
his letters when he wrote any, drew from his pocket 
and reread as he walked the curt note which had led 
to this journey being undertaken ; it was despatched 
by their father the night before, immediately upon his 
liberation, and stated that he was setting out for Narro- 
bourne at the moment of writing ; that having no 
money he would be obliged to walk all the way; that 
he calculated on passing through the intervening town 
of Ivell about six on the following day, where he 
should sup at the Castle Inn, and where he hoped they 
would meet him with a carriage-and-pair, or some other 
such conveyance, that he might not disgrace them by 
arriving like a tramp. 

“ That sounds as if he gave a thought to our posi- 
tion,” said Cornelius. 

Joshua knew the satire that lurked in the paternal 
words, and said nothing. Silence prevailed during 
the greater part of their journey. The lamps were 
lighted in Ivell when they entered the streets, and 
Cornelius, who was quite unknown in this neighbor- 
hood, and who, moreover, was not in clerical attire, 
decided that he should be the one to call at the Castle 
Inn. Here, in answer to his inquiry under the dark- 
ness of the archway, they told him that such a man as 
he had described left the house about a quarter of an 
hour earlier, after making a meal in the kitchen settle. 
He was rather the worse for liquor. 

“ Then,” said Joshua, when Cornelius joined him 
outside with this intelligence, “ we must have met and 
passed him. And now that I think of it, we did meet 
some one who was unsteady in his gait under the trees 
on the other side of Hendcome Hill, where it was too 
dark to see him.” 

They rapidly retraced their steps ; but for a long 
5 


66 


life’s little ironies 


stretch of the way home could discern nobody. When, 
however, they had gone about three - quarters of the 
distance, they became conscious of an irregular foot- 
fall in front of them, and could see a whitish figure in 
the gloom. They followed dubiously. The figure met 
another wayfarer — the single one that had been en- 
countered upon this lonely road — and they distinctly 
heard him ask the way to Narrobourne. The stranger 
replied — what was quite true — that the nearest way 
was by turning in at the stile by the next bridge, and 
following the foot-path which branched thence across 
the meadows. 

When the brothers reached the stile they also en- 
tered the path, but did not overtake the subject of their 
worry till they had crossed two or three meads, and 
the lights from Narrobourne manor-house were visible 
before them through the trees. Their father was no 
longer walking ; he was seated against the wet bank 
of an adjoining hedge. Observing their forms he 
shouted, “ I’m going to Narrobourne ; who may you 

be r 

They went up to him, and revealed themselves, 
reminding him of the plan which he had himself 
proposed in his note, that they should meet him at 
I veil. 

“By Jerry, I’d forgot it !” he said. “Well, what 
do you want me to do?” His tone was distinctly 
quarrelsome. 

A long conversation followed, which became im- 
bittered at the first hint from them that he should not 
come to the village. The millwright drew a quart 
bottle from his pocket, and challenged them to drink 
if they meant friendly and called themselves men. 
Neither of the two had touched alcohol for years, but 
for once they thought it best to accept, so as not to 
needlessly provoke him. 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS * 67 

“ What’s in it?” said Joshua. 

“ A drop of weak gin-and-water. It won’t hurt ye. 
Drink from the bottle.” Joshua did so, and his father 
pushed up the bottom of the vessel so as to make him 
swallow a good deal in spite of himself. It went down 
into his stomach like molten lead. 

“ Ha, ha, that’s right!” said old Halborough. “ But 
’twas raw spirit — ha, ha!” 

“ Why should you take me in so!” said Joshua, los- 
ing his self-command, try as he would to keep calm. 

“ Because you took me in, my lad, in banishing me 
to that cursed country under pretence that it was for 
my good. You were a pair of hypocrites to say so. 
It was done to get rid of me — no more nor less. But, 
by Jerry, I’m a match for ye now! I’ll spoil your 
souls for preaching. My daughter is going to be mar- 
ried to the squire here. I’ve heard the news — I saw 
it in a paper !” 

“ It is premature — ” 

“ I know it is true ; and I’m her father, and I shall 
give her away, or there’ll be a hell of a row, I can as- 
sure ye ! Is that where the gennleman lives ?” 

Joshua Halborough writhed in impotent despair. 
Fellmer had not yet positively declared himself, his 
mother was hardly won round; a scene with their fa- 
ther in the parish would demolish as fair a palace of 
hopes as was ever builded. The millwright rose. “ If 
that’s where the squire lives I’m going to call. Just 
arrived from Canady with her fortune — ha, ha ! I wish 
no harm to the gennleman, and the gennleman will 
wish no harm to me. But I like to take my place in 
the family, and stand upon my rights, and lower peo- 
ple’s pride !” 

“You’ve succeeded already! Where’s that woman 
you took with you — ” 

" Woman ! She was my wife as lawful as the Con- 


68 


life’s little ironies 


stitution — a sight more lawful than your mother was 
till some time after you were born l” 

Joshua had for many years before heard whispers 
that his father had cajoled his mother in their early 
acquaintance, and had made somewhat tardy amends ; 
but never from his father’s lips till now. It was the 
last stroke, and he could not bear it. He sank back 
against the hedge. “ It is over !” he said. “ He ruins 
us all !” 

The millwright moved on, waving his stick tri- 
umphantly, and the two brothers stood still. They 
could see his drab figure stalking along the path, and 
over his head the lights from the conservatory of Nar- 
robourne House, inside which Albert Fellmer might 
possibly be sitting with Rosa at that moment, holding 
her hand, and asking her to share his borne with him. 

The staggering whitey- brown form, advancing to 
put a blot on all this, had been diminishing in the 
shade ; and now suddenly disappeared beside a wear. 
There was the noise of a flounce in the water. 

“ He has fallen in !” said Cornelius, starting for- 
ward to run for the place at which his father had van- 
ished. 

Joshua, awaking from the stupefied reverie into 
which he had sunk, rushed to the other’s side before 
he had taken ten steps. “Stop, stop, what are you 
thinking of ?” he whispered, hoarsely, grasping Cor- 
nelius’s arm. 

“ Pulling him out !” 

“Yes, yes — so am I. But — wait a moment — ” 

“ But, Joshua !” 

“Her life and happiness, you know — Cornelius — 
and your reputation and mine — and our chance of ris- 
ing together, all three — ” 

He clutched his brother’s arm to the bone ; and as 
they stood breathless the splashing and floundering in 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


69 


the wear continued ; over it they saw the hopeful 
lights from the manor-house conservatory winking 
through the trees as their bare branches waved to 
and fro. 

The floundering and splashing grew weaker, and 
they could hear gurgling words : “ Help — I’m drown- 
ded ! Rosie — Rosie !” 

“ We’ll go — we must save him. Oh, Joshua !” 

“Yes, yes, we must!” 

Still they did not move, but waited, holding each 
other, each thinking the same thought. Weights of 
lead seemed to be affixed to their feet, which would 
no longer obey their wills. The mead became silent. 
Over it they fancied they could see figures moving in 
the conservatory. The air up there seemed to emit 
gentle kisses. 

Cornelius started forward at last, and Joshua almost 
simultaneously. Two or three minutes brought them 
to the brink of the stream. At first they could see 
nothing in the water, though it was not so deep nor 
the night so dark but that their father’s light kersey- 
mere coat would have been visible if he had lain at 
the bottom. Joshua looked this way and that. 

“ He has drifted into the culvert,” he said. 

Below the foot-bridge of the wear the stream sud- 
denly narrowed to half its width, to pass under a bar- 
rel arch or culvert constructed for wagons to cross 
into the middle of the mead in hay-making time. It 
being at present the season of high water the arch was 
full to the crown, against which the ripples clucked 
every now and then. At this point he had just 
caught sight of a pale object slipping under. In a 
moment it was gone. 

They went to the lower end, but nothing emerged. 
For a long time they tried at both ends to effect some 
communication with the interior, but to no purpose. 


70 


life’s little ironies 


“We ought to have come sooner!” said the com 
science - stricken Cornelius, when they were quite ex- 
hausted, and dripping wet. 

“ I suppose we ought,” replied Joshua, heavily. He 
perceived his father’s walking - stick on the bank ; 
hastily picking it . up he stuck it into the mud among 
the sedge. Then they went on. 

“Shall we — say anything about this accident?” 
whispered Cornelius as they approached the door of 
Joshua’s house. 

“What’s the use? It can do no good. We must 
wait until he is found.” 

They went in-doors and changed their clothes; after 
which they started for the manor-house, reaching it 
about ten o’clock. Besides their sister there were 
only three guests : an adjoining land-owner and his 
wife, and the infirm old rector. 

Rosa, although she had parted from them so re- 
cently, grasped their hands in an ecstatic, brimming, 
joyful manner, as if she had not seen them for years. 
“ You look pale,” she said. 

The brothers answered that they had had a long 
walk, and were somewhat tired. Everybody in the 
room seemed charged full with some sort of interest- 
ing knowledge ; the squire’s neighbor and his wife 
looked wisely around, and Fellmer himself played 
the part of host with a preoccupied bearing which ap- 
proached fervor. They left at eleven, not accepting 
the carriage offered, the distance being so short and 
the roads dry. The squire came rather farther into 
the dark with them than he need have done, and 
wished Rosa good -night in a mysterious manner, 
slightly apart from the rest. 

When they were walking along Joshua said, with a 
desperate attempt at joviality, “Rosa, what’s going 
on?” 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


71 


“ Oh, I — ” she began, between a gasp and a bound. 
“He—” 

“ Never mind — if it disturbs you.” 

She was so excited that she could not speak con- 
nectedly at first, the practised air which she had 
brought home with her having disappeared. Calming 
herself she added, “ I am not disturbed, and nothing 
has happened. Only he said he wanted to ask me 
something, some day ; and I said never mind that 
now. He hasn’t asked yet, and is coming to speak to 
you about it. He would have done so to-night, only 
I asked him not to be in a hurry. But he will come 
to-morrow, I am sure !” 


Y 

It was summer-time, six month’s later, and mowers 
and hay-makers were at work in the meads. The 
manor-house, being opposite them, frequently formed 
a peg for conversation during these operations ; and 
the doings of the squire, and the squire’s young wife, 
the curate’s sister — who was at present the admired 
of most of them, and the interest of all — met with 
their due amount of criticism. 

Rosa was happy, if ever woman could be said to be 
so. She had not learned the fate of her father, and 
sometimes wondered — perhaps with a sense of relief — 
why he did not write to her from his supposed home 
in Canada. Her brother Joshua had been presented 
to a living in a small town, shortly after her marriage, 
and Cornelius had thereupon succeeded to the vacant 
curacy of Narrobourne. 

These two had awaited in deep suspense the dis- 
covery of their father’s body, and yet the discovery 


72 


life’s little ihonies 


had not been made. Every day they expected a man 
or a boy to run up from the meads with the intelli- 
gence; but he had never come. Days had accumu- 
lated to weeks and months ; the wedding had come 
and gone ; Joshua had tolled and read himself in at 
his new parish, and never a shout of amazement over 
the millwright’s remains. 

But now, in June, when they were mowing the 
meads, the hatches had to be drawn and the water 
let out of its channels for the convenience of the 
mowers. It was thus that the discovery was made. 
A man, stooping low with his scythe, caught a view 
of the culvert lengthwise, and saw something entan- 
gled in the recently bared weeds of its bed. A day 
or two after there was an inquest; but the body was 
unrecognizable. Fish and flood had been busy with 
the millwright; he had no watch or marked article 
which could be identified, and a verdict of the ac- 
cidental drowning of a person unknown settled the 
matter. 

As the body was found in Narrobourne parish, there 
it had to be buried. Cornelius wrote to Joshua, beg- 
ging him to come and read the service, or to send 
some one ; he himself could not do it. Rather than 
let in a stranger Joshua came, and silently scanned 
the coroner’s order handed him by the undertaker: 

“I, Henry Giles, Coroner for the Mid-Division of 
Outer Wessex, do hereby order the Burial of the Body 
now shown to the Inquest Jury as the Body of an 
Adult Male Person Unknown . . .” etc. 

Joshua Halborough got through the service in some 
way, and rejoined his brother Cornelius at his house. 
Neither accepted an invitation to lunch at their sis- 
ter’s ; they wished to discuss parish matters together. 
In the afternoon she came down, though they had al- 
ready called on her, and had not expected to see her 


A TRAGEDY OP TWO AMBITIONS 


73 


again. Her bright eyes, brown hair, flowery bonnet, 
lemon-colored gloves, and flush beauty were like an 
irradiation into the apartment, which they in their 
gloom could hardly bear. 

“ I forgot to tell you,” she said, “of a curious thing 
which happened to me a month or two before my mar- 
riage — something which I have thought may have had 
a connection with the accident to the poor man you 
have buried to-day. It was on that evening I was at 
the manor-house waiting for you to fetch me ; I was 
in the winter-garden with Albert, and we were sitting 
silent together, when we fancied we heard a cry. We 
opened the door, and while Albert ran to fetch his hat, 
leaving me standing there, the cry was repeated, and 
my excited senses made me think I heard my own 
name. When Albert came back all was silent, and we 
decided that it was only a drunken shout, and not a 
cry for help. We both forgot the incident, and it 
never has occurred to me till since the funeral to-day 
that it might have been this stranger’s cry. The name 
of course was only fancy, or he might have had a wife 
or child with a name something like mine, poor man!” 

When she was gone the brothers were silent till 
Cornelius said, “Now mark this, Joshua. Sooner or 
later she’ll know.” 

“How?” 

“ From one of us. Do you think human hearts are 
iron-cased safes, that you suppose we can keep this 
secret forever?” 

“Yes, I think they are, sometimes,” said Joshua. 

“No* It will out. We shall tell.” 

“ What, and ruin her — kill her? Disgrace her chil- 
dren, and pull down the ivhole auspicious house of 
Fellmer about our ears? No ! May I — drown where 
he was drowned before I do it! Never, never. Sure- 
ly you can say the same, Cornelius?” 


74 life’s little ironies 

Cornelius seemed fortified, and no more was said. 
For a long time after that day he did not see Joshua, 
and before the next year was out a son and heir was 
born to the Fellmers. The villagers rang the three 
bells every evening for a week and more, and were 
made merry by Mr. Fellmer’s ale; and when the chris- 
tening came on Joshua paid Narrobourne another 
visit. 

Among all the people who assembled on that day 
the brother clergymen were the least interested. Their 
minds were haunted by a spirit in kerseymere. In the 
evening they walked together in the fields. 

“ She’s all right,” said Joshua. “ But here are you 
doing journey-work, Cornelius, and likely to continue 
at it till the end of the day, as far as I can see. I, 
too, with my petty living — what am I, after all ? . . . To 
tell the truth, the Church is a poor forlorn hope for 
people without influence, particularly when their en- 
thusiasm begins to flag. A social regenerator has a 
better chance outside, where he is unhampered by 
dogma and tradition. As for me, I would rather have 
gone on mending mills, with my crust of bread and 
liberty.” 

Almost automatically they had bent their steps 
along the margin of the river; they now paused. 
They were standing on the brink of the well-known 
wear. There were the hatches, there was the culvert; 
they could see the pebbly bed of the stream through 
the pellucid water. The notes of the church- bells 
were audible, still jangled by the enthusiastic vil- 
lagers. 

“It was there I hid his walking-stick,” said Joshua, 
looking towards the sedge. The next moment, dur- 
ing a passing breeze, something flashed white on the 
spot they regarded. 

From the sedge rose a straight little silver-poplar, 


A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS 


75 


and it was the leaves of this sapling which caused the 
flicker of whiteness. 

“His walking-stick has grown !” said Cornelius. “ It 
was a rough one — cut from the hedge, I remember.” 

At every puff of wind the tree turned white, till 
they could not bear to look at it ; and they walked 
away. 

“ I see him every night,” Cornelius murmured. . . . 
“Ah, we read our Hebrews to little account, Jos ! 'Ytte- 
fiEive aravpoV) aia^vvriQ Karacppovijcrag. To have endured 
the cross, despising the shame — there lay greatness! 
But now I often feel that I should like to put an end 
to trouble here in this self-same spot.” 

“I have thought of it myself,” said Joshua. 

“ Perhaps we shall, some day,” murmured his 
brother. 

“Perhaps,” said Joshua, moodily. 

With that contingency to consider in the silence 
of their nights and days they bent their steps home- 
ward. 


December, 1888. 


OH THE WESTEBH CIRCUIT 


I 

The man who played the disturbing part in the two 
quiet lives hereafter depicted— no great man, in any 
sense, by-the-way — first bad knowledge of them on an 
October evening in the city of Melchester. He had 
been standing in the close, vainly endeavoring to gain 
amid the darkness a glimpse of the most homogeneous 
pile of mediaeval architecture in England, which tow- 
ered and tapered from the damp and level sward in 
front of him. While he stood the presence of the 
cathedral walls was revealed rather by the ear than 
by the eyes ; he could not see them, but they reflected 
sharply a roar of sound which entered the close by a 
street leading from the city square, and, falling upon 
the building, was flung back upon him. 

He postponed till the morrow his attempt to exam- 
ine the deserted edifice, and turned his attention to 
the noise. It was compounded of steam barrel-organs, 
the clanging of gongs, the ringing of hand-bells, the 
clack of rattles, and the undistinguishable shouts of 
men. A lurid light hung in the air in the direction of 
the tumult. Thitherward he went, passing under the 
arched gateway, along a straight street, and into the 
square. 

He might have searched Europe over for a greater 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


77 


contrast between juxtaposed scenes. The spectacle 
was that of the eighth chasm of the Inferno as to color 
and flame, and, as to mirth, a development of the Ho- 
meric heaven. A smoky glare, of the complexion of 
brass filings, ascended from the fiery tongues of innu- 
merable naphtha lamps affixed to booths, stalls, and 
other temporary erections which crowded the spacious 
market-square. In front of this irradiation scores of 
human figures, more or less in profile, were darting 
athwart and across, up, down, and around, like gnats 
against a sunset. 

Their motions were so rhythmical that they seemed 
to be moved by machinery. And it presently ap- 
peared that they were moved by machinery indeed, 
the figures being those of the patrons of swings, see- 
saws, flying-leaps, above all of the three steam round- 
abouts which occupied the centre of the position. It 
was from the latter that the din of steam-organs came. 

Throbbing humanity in full light was, on second 
thoughts, better than ecclesiology in the dark. The 
young man, lighting a short pipe, and putting his 
hat on one side and one hand in his pocket, to throw 
himself into harmony with his new environment, drew 
near to the largest and most patronized of the steam 
circuses, as the roundabouts were called by their own- 
ers. This was one of brilliant finish, and it was now 
in full revolution. The musical instrument around 
which and to whose tones the riders revolved, directed 
its trumpet-mouths of brass upon the young man, and 
the long plate-glass mirrors set at angles, which re- 
volved with the machine, flashed the gyrating person- 
ages and hobby-horses kaleidoscopically into his eyes. 

It could now be seen that he was unlike the major- 
ity of the crowd. A gentlemanly young fellow, one 
of the species found in large towns only, and London 
particularly, built on delicate lines, well, though not 


78 


life’s little ironies 


fashionably dressed, he appeared to belong to the pro- 
fessional class; he had nothing square or practical 
about his look, much that was curvilinear and sen- 
suous. Indeed, some would have called him a man 
not altogether typical of the middle-class male of a 
century wherein sordid ambition is the master - pas- 
sion that seems to be taking the time - honored place 
of love. 

The revolving figures passed before his eyes with 
an unexpected and quiet grace in a throng whose 
natural movements did not suggest gracefulness or 
quietude as a rule. By some contrivance there was 
imparted to each of the hobby-horses a motion which 
was really the triumph and perfection of roundabout 
inventiveness — a galloping rise and fall, so timed 
that, of each pair of steeds, one was on the spring 
while the other was on the pitch. The riders were 
quite fascinated by these equine undulations in this 
most delightful holiday game of our times. There 
were riders as young as six, and as old as sixty years, 
with every age between. At first it was difficult to 
catch a personality, but by-and-by the observer’s eyes 
centred on the prettiest girl out of the several pretty 
ones revolving. 

It was not that one with the light frock and light 
hat whom he had been at first attracted by ; no, it 
was the one with the black cape, gray skirt, light 
gloves, and — no, not even she, but the one behind 
her ; she with the crimson skirt, dark jacket, brown 
hat, and brown gloves. Unmistakably that was the 
prettiest girl. 

Having finally selected her, this idle spectator stud- 
ied her as well as he was able during each of her 
brief transits across his visual field. She was abso- 
lutely unconscious of everything save the act of rid- 
ing : her features were rapt in an ecstatic dreami- 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


79 


ness ; for the moment she did not know her age or 
her history or her lineaments, much less her troubles. 
He himself was full of vague latter-day glooms and 
popular melancholies, and it was a refreshing sensa- 
tion to behold this young thing, then and there, abso- 
lutely as happy as if she were in a Paradise. 

Dreading the moment when the inexorable stoker, 
grimly lurking behind the glittering rococo -work, 
should decide that this set of riders had had their 
pennyworth, and bring the whole concern of steam- 
engine, horses, mirrors, trumpets, drums, cymbals, 
and such like to pause and silence, he waited for her 
every reappearance, glancing indifferently over the 
intervening forms, including the two plainer girls, the 
old woman and child, the two youngsters, the newly- 
married couple, the old man with a clay pipe, the 
sparkish youth with a ring, the young ladies in the 
chariot, the pair of journeyman carpenters, and others, 
till his select country beauty followed on again in her 
place. He had never seen a fairer product of nature, 
and at each round she made a deeper mark in his sen- 
timents. The stoppage then came, and the sighs of 
the riders were audible. 

He moved round to the place at which he reckoned 
she would alight ; but she retained her seat. The 
empty saddles began to refill, and she plainly was 
deciding to have another turn. The young man drew 
up to the side of her steed, and pleasantly asked her 
if she had enjoyed her ride. 

“ Oh yes !” she said, with dancing eyes. “ It has 
been quite unlike anything I have ever felt in my life 
before !” 

It was not difficult to fall into conversation with 
her. Unreserved — too unreserved — by nature, she 
was not experienced enough to be reserved by art, 
and after a little coaxing she answered his remark# 


80 


life’s little ironies 


readily. She had come to live in Melchester from a 
village on the Great Plain, and this was the first time 
that she had ever seen a steam-circus ; she could not 
understand how such wonderful machines were made. 
She had come to the city on the invitation of Mrs. Harn- 
ham, who had taken her into her household to train 
her as a servant if she showed any aptitude. Mrs. 
Harnham was a young lady who before she married 
had been Miss Edith White, living in the country near 
the speaker’s cottage ; she was now very kind to her 
through knowing her in childhood so well. She was 
even taking the trouble to educate her. Mrs. Harn- 
ham was the only friend she had in the world, and 
being without children had wished to have her near 
her in preference to anybody else, though she had 
only lately come ; allowed her to do almost as she 
liked, and to have a holiday whenever she asked for 
it. The husband of this kind young lady was a rich 
wine - merchant of the town, but Mrs. Harnham did 
not care much about him. In the daytime you could 
see the house from where they were talking. She, 
the speaker, liked Melchester better than the lonely 
country, and she was going to have a new hat for 
next Sunday that was to cost fifteen and ninepence. 

Then she inquired of her acquaintance where he 
lived, and he told her in London, that ancient and 
smoky city, where everybody lived who lived at all, 
and died because they could not live there. He came 
into Wessex two or three times a year for profes- 
sional reasons ; he had arrived from Wintoncester 
yesterday, and was going on into the next county in 
a day or two. For one thing he did like the country 
better than the town, and it was because it contained 
such girls as she. 

Then the pleasure - machine started again, and, to 
the light-hearted girl, the figure of the handsome 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


81 


young man, the market - square with its lights and 
crowd, the houses beyond, and the world at large, 
began moving round as before, countermoving in the 
revolving mirrors on her right hand, she being as it 
were the fixed point in an undulating, dazzling, lurid 
universe, in which loomed forward most prominently 
of all the form of her late interlocutor. Each time 
that she approached the half of her orbit that lay 
nearest him they gazed at each other with smiles, and 
with that unmistakable expression which means so 
little at the moment, yet so often leads up to passion, 
heartache, union, disunion, devotion, overpopulation, 
drudgery, content, resignation, despair. 

When the horses slowed anew he stepped to her 
side and proposed another heat. “ Hang the expense 
for once,” he said. “ I’ll pay !” 

She laughed till the tears came. 

“ Why do you laugh, dear ?” said he. 

“ Because — you are so genteel that you must have 
plenty of money, and only say that for fun !” she 
returned. 

“ Ha-ha !” laughed the young man in unison, and 
gallantly producing his money she was enabled to 
whirl on again. 

As he stood smiling there in the motley crowd, with 
his pipe in his hand, and clad in the rough pea-jacket 
and wide-awake that he had put on for his stroll, who 
would have supposed him to be Charles Bradford 
Raye, Esquire, stuff-gownsman, educated at Winton- 
cester, called to the bar at Lincoln’s Inn, now going 
the Western Circuit, merely detained in Melchester 
by a small arbitration after his brethren had moved on 
to the next county-town ? 

6 


62 


life’s little ironies 


II 

The square was overlooked from its remoter corner 
by the house of which the young girl had spoken, a 
dignified residence of considerable size, having several 
windows on each floor. Inside one of these, on the 
first floor, the apartment being a large drawing-room, 
sat a lady, in appearance from twenty-eight to thirty 
years of age. The blinds were still undrawn, and the 
lady was absently surveying the weird scene without, 
her cheek resting on her hand. The room was unlit 
from within, but enough of the glare from the market- 
place entered it to reveal the lady’s face. She was 
what is called an interesting creature rather than a 
handsome woman ; dark-eyed, thoughtful, and with 
sensitive lips. 

A man sauntered into the room from behind and 
came forward. 

“ Oh, Edith, I didn’t see you,” he said. “ Why are 
you sitting here in the dark ?” 

“ I am looking at the fair,” replied the lady, in a 
languid voice. 

“ Oh ? Horrid nuisance every year ! I wish it 
could be put a stop to.” 

“ I like it.” 

“ H’m. There’s no accounting for taste.” 

For a moment he gazed from the window with her, 
for politeness’ sake, and then went out again. 

In a few minutes she rang. 

“ Hasn’t Anna come in ?” asked Mrs. Harnham. 

“ No, m’m.” 

“ She ought to be in by this time. I meant her to 
go for ten minutes only.” 

“ Shall I go and look for her, m’m ?” said the house- 
maid, alertly. 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


83 


“ No. It is not necessary : she is a good girl and 
will come soon. ,, 

However, when the servant had gone Mrs. Harn- 
ham arose, went up to her room, cloaked and bonneted 
herself, and proceeded down-stairs, where she found 
her husband. 

“ I want to see the fair,” she said, “ and I am going 
to look for Anna. I have made myself responsible for 
her, and must see she comes to no harm. She ought 
to be in-doors. Will you come with me?” 

“ Oh, she’s all right. I saw her on one of those 
whirligig things, talking to her young man as I came 
in. But I’ll go if you wish, though I’d rather go a 
hundred miles the other way.” 

“Then please do so. I shall come to no harm 
alone.” 

She left the house and entered the crowd which 
thronged the market-place, where she soon discovered 
Anna, seated on the revolving horse. As soon as it 
stopped Mrs. Harnham advanced and said, severely, 
“Anna, how can you be such a wild girl? You were 
only to be out for ten minutes.” 

Anna looked blank, and the young man, who had 
dropped into the background, came to her assistance. 

“ Please don’t blame her,” he said, politely. “ It is 
my fault that she has stayed. She looked so graceful 
on the horse that I induced her to go round again. I 
assure you that she has been quite safe.” 

“In that case I’ll leave her in your hands,” said 
Mrs. Harnham, turning to retrace her steps. 

But this for the moment it was not so easy to do. 
Something had attracted the crowd to a spot in their 
rear, and the wine - merchant’s wife, caught by its 
sway, found herself pressed against Anna’s acquaint- 
ance without power to move away. Their faces were 
within a few inches of each other, his breath fanned 


84 


life’s little ironies 


her cheek as well as Anna’s. They could do no other 
than smile at the accident ; hut neither spoke, and 
each waited passively. Mrs. Ilarnham then felt a 
man’s hand clasping her fingers, and from the look of 
consciousness on the young fellow’s face she knew the 
hand to be his ; she also knew that from the position 
of the girl he had no other thought than that the im- 
prisoned hand was Anna’s. What prompted her to 
refrain from undeceiving him she could hardly tell. 
Not content with holding the hand, he playfully 
slipped two of his fingers inside her glove, against her 
palm. Thus matters continued till the pressure les- 
sened ; but several minutes passed before the crowd 
thinned sufficiently to allow Mrs. Harnham to with- 
draw. 

“ How did they get to know each other, I wonder ?” 
she mused as she retreated. “ Anna is really very 
forward — and he very wicked and nice.” 

She was so gently stirred with the stranger’s man- 
ner and voice, with the tenderness of his idle touch, 
that instead of re-entering the house she turned back 
again and observed the pair from a screened nook. 
Really, she argued (being little less impulsive than 
Anna herself), it was very excusable in Anna to en- 
courage him, however she might have contrived to 
make his acquaintance ; he was so gentlemanly, so 
fascinating, had such beautiful eyes. The thought 
that he was several years her junior produced a rea- 
sonless sigh. 

At length the couple turned from the roundabout 
towards the door of Mrs. Harnham’s house, and the 
young man could be heard saying that he would ac- 
company her home. Anna, then, had found a lover, 
apparently a very devoted one. Mrs. Harnham was 
quite interested in him. When they drew near the 
door of the wine - merchant’s house, a comparatively 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


85 


deserted spot by this time, they stood invisible for a 
little while in the shadow of a wall, where they sepa- 
rated, Anna going on to the entrance, and her acquaint- 
ance returning across the square. 

“ Anna,” said Mrs. Harnham, coming up. “ I’ve 
been looking at you ! That young man kissed you at 
parting, I am almost sure.” 

“Well,” stammered Anna, “he said if I didn’t mind, 
it would do me no harm, and — and — him a great deal 
of good !” 

“ Ah, I thought so ! And he was a stranger till to- 
night ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Yet I warrant you told him your name and every- 
thing about yourself ?” 

“ He asked me.” 

“ But he didn’t tell you his ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am, he did !” cried Anna, victoriously. “ It 
is Charles Bradford, of London.” 

“Well, if he’s respectable, of course I’ve nothing to 
say against your knowing him,” remarked her mis- 
tress, prepossessed, in spite of general principles, in 
the young man’s favor. “But I must reconsider all 
that if he attempts to renew your acquaintance. A 
country-bred girl like you, who has never lived in 
Melchester till this month, who had hardly ever seen a 
black-coated man till you came here, to be so sharp as 
to capture a young Londoner like him !” 

“ I didn’t capture him. I didn’t do anything,” said 
Anna, in confusion. 

When she was in-doors and alone Mrs. Harnham 
thought what a well-bred and chivalrous young man 
Anna’s companion had seemed. There had been a 
magic in his wooing touch of her hand, and she won- 
dered how he had come to be attracted by the girl. 

The next morning the emotional Edith Harnham 


86 


life’s little ironies 


went to the usual week-day service in Melchester ca- 
thedral. In crossing the close through the fog she 
again perceived him who had interested her the pre- 
vious evening, gazing up thoughtfully at the high- 
piled architecture of the nave; and as soon as she had 
taken her seat he entered and sat down in a stall op- 
posite hers. 

He did not particularly heed her; but Mrs Harnham 
was continually occupying her eyes with him, and won- 
dered more than ever what had attracted him in her un- 
fledged maid-servant. The mistress was almost as un- 
accustomed as the maiden herself to the end-of-the-age 
young man, or she might have wondered less. Raye, 
having looked about him awhile, left abruptly, with- 
out regard to the service that was proceeding; and 
Mrs. Harnham — lonely, impressionable creature that 
she was — took no further interest in praising the Lord. 
She wished she had married a London man who knew 
the subtleties of love-making as they were evidently 
known to him who had mistakenly caressed her hand. 


Ill 

The calendar at Melchester had been light, occupy- 
ing the court only a few hours ; and the assizes at 
Casterbridge, the next county -town on the Western 
Circuit, having no business for Raye, he had not gone 
thither. At the next town after that they did not 
open till the following Monday, trials to begin on 
Tuesday morning. In the natural order of things 
Raye would have arrived at the latter place on 
Monday afternoon ; but it was not till the middle of 
Wednesday that his gown and gray wig, curled in 
tiers, in the best fashion of Assyrian bass-reliefs, were 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


8 ? 


seen blowing and bobbing behind him as he hastily 
walked up the High Street from his lodgings. But 
though he entered the assize building, there was noth- 
ing for him to do ; and sitting at the blue baize table 
in the well of the court, he mended pens with a mind 
far away from the case in progress. Thoughts of 
unpremeditated conduct, of which a week earlier he 
would not have believed himself capable, threw him 
into a mood of dissatisfied depression. 

He had contrived to see again the pretty rural maid- 
en Anna the day after the fair, had walked out of the 
city with her to the earthworks of Old Melchester, 
and, feeling a violent fancy for her, had remained in 
Melchester all Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday ; by per- 
suasion obtaining walks and meetings with the young 
girl six or seven times during the interval ; had in brief 
won her, body and soul. 

He supposed it must have been owing to the seclu- 
sion in which he had lived of late in town that he had 
given way so unrestrainedly to a passion for an artless 
creature whose inexperience had, from the first, led 
her to place herself unreservedly in his hands. Much 
he deplored trifling with her feelings for the sake of a 
passing desire ; and he could only hope that she might 
not live to suffer on his account. 

She had begged him to come to her again ; entreat- 
ed him; wept. He had promised that he would do so, 
and he meant to carry out that promise. He could 
not desert her now. Awkward as such unintentional 
connections were, the interspace of a hundred miles — 
which to a girl of her limited capabilities was like a 
thousand — would effectually hinder this summer fancy 
from greatly encumbering his life; while thought of 
her simple love might do him the negative good of 
keeping him from idle pleasures in town when he 
wished to work hard. His circuit journeys would 


88 


life’s little ironies 


take him to Melchester three or four times a year, 
and then he could always see her. 

The pseudonym, or rather partial name, that he had 
given her as his before knowing how far the acquaint- 
ance was going to carry him, had been spoken on the 
spur of the moment, without any ulterior intention 
whatever. He had not afterwards disturbed Anna’s 
error, but on leaving her he had felt bound to give 
her an address at a stationer’s not far from his cham- 
bers, at which she might w T rite to him under the ini- 
tials “C. B.” 

In due time Raye returned to his London abode, 
having called at Melchester on his w r ay and spent a 
few additional hours with his fascinating child of 
nature. In town he lived monotonously every day. 
Often he and his rooms were enclosed by a tawny fog 
from all the world besides, and when he lighted the 
gas to read or write by, his situation seemed so un- 
natural that he would look into the fire and think 
of that trusting girl at Melchester again and again. 
Often, oppressed by absurd fondness for her, he would 
enter the dim religious nave of the Law Courts by the 
north door, elbow other juniors habited like himself, 
and like him unretained; edge himself into this or that 
crowded court where a sensational case was going on, 
just as if he were in it, though the police officers at 
the door knew as well as he knew himself that he had 
no more concern with the business in hand than the pa- 
tient idlers at the gallery door outside, who had waited 
to enter since eight in the morning because, like him, 
they belonged to the classes that live without work- 
ing. But he would do these things to no purpose, and 
think how greatly the characters in such scenes con- 
trasted with the pink and breezy Anna. 

An unexpected feature in that peasant maiden’s 
conduct was that she had not as yet written to him, 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


89 


though he had told her she might do so if she wished. 
Surely a young creature had never before been so ret- 
icent in such circumstances. At length he sent her a 
brief line, positively requesting her to write. There 
was no answer by the return post, but the day after a 
letter in a neat feminine hand, and bearing the Mel- 
chester postmark, was handed to him by the stationer. 

The fact alone of its arrival was sufficient to satis- 
fy his imaginative sentiment. He was not anxious 
to open the epistle, and in truth did not begin to 
read it for nearly half an hour, anticipating readily its 
terras of affectionate retrospect and tender adjuration. 
When at last he turned his feet to the fireplace and 
unfolded the sheet, he was surprised and pleased to 
find that neither extravagance nor vulgarity were 
there. It was the most charming little missive he 
had ever received from woman. To be sure the lan- 
guage was simple, and the ideas were slight; but it 
was so self - possessed, so purely that of a young girl 
who felt her womanhood to be enough for her dignity 
that he read it through twice. Four sides were filled, 
and a few lines written across, after the fashion of 
former days ; the paper, too, was common, and not of 
the latest shade and surface. But what of those 
things? He had received letters from women who 
were fairly called ladies, but never so sensible, so 
human a letter as this. He could not single out any 
one sentence and say it was at all remarkable or 
clever ; the ensemble of the letter it was which won 
him ; and beyond the one request that he would write 
or come to her again soon there was nothing to show 
her sense of a claim upon him. 

To write again and develop a correspondence was 
the last thing Raye would have preconceived as his 
conduct in such a situation ; yet he did send a short, 
encouraging line or two, signed with his pseudonym. 


life’s little ironies 


90 

in which he asked for another letter, and cheeringly 
promised that he would try to see her again on some 
near day, and would never forget how much they had 
been to each other during their short acquaintance. 


IV 

To return now to the moment at which Anna, at 
Melchester, had received Raye’s letter. 

It had been put into her own hand by the postman 
on his morning rounds. She flushed down to her neck 
on receipt of it, and turned it over and over. “ It is 
mine ?” she said. 

“ Why, yes, can’t you see it is ?” said the postman, 
smiling as he guessed the nature of the document and 
the cause of the confusion. 

“ Oh yes, of course !” replied Anna, looking at the 
letter, forcedly tittering, and blushing still more. 

Her look of embarrassment did not leave her with 
the postman’s departure. She opened the envelope, 
kissed its contents, put away the letter in her pocket, 
and remained musing till her eyes filled with tears. 

A few minutes later she carried up a cup of tea to 
Mrs. Harnham in her bed-chamber. Anna’s mistress 
looked at her, and said : “ How dismal you seem this 
morning, Anna. What’s the matter ?” 

“ I’m not dismal, I’m glad ; only I — ” She stopped 
to stifle a sob. 

“Well ?” 

“I’ve got a letter — and what good is it to me if I 
can’t read a word in it ?” 

“ Why, I’ll read it, child, if necessary.” 

“ But this is from somebody — I don’t want anybody 
to read it but myself !” Anna murmured. 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


91 


“ I shall not tell anybody. Is it from that young 
man ?” 

“I think so.” Anna slowly produced the letter, 
saying : “ Then will you read it to me, ma’am ?” 

This was the secret of Anna’s embarrassment and 
flutterings. She could neither read nor write. She 
had grown up under the care of an aunt by marriage, 
at one of the lonely hamlets on the Great Mid- Wessex 
Plain where, even in days of national education, 
there had been no school within a distance of two 
miles. Her aunt was an ignorant woman ; there had 
been nobody to investigate Anna’s circumstances, 
nobody to care about her learning the rudiments, 
though, as often in such cases, she had been well fed 
and clothed and not unkindly treated. Since she had 
come to live at Melch ester with Mrs. Harnham, the 
latter, who took a kindly interest in the girl, had 
taught her to speak correctly, in which accomplish- 
ment Anna showed considerable readiness, as is not 
unusual with the illiterate ; and soon became quite 
fluent in the use of her mistress’s phraseology. Mrs. 
Harnham also insisted upon her getting a spelling 
and copy book, and beginning to practise in these. 
Anna was slower in this branch of her education, and 
meanwhile here was the letter. 

Edith Harnham’s large dark eyes expressed some 
interest in the contents, though, in her character of 
mere interpreter, she threw into her tone as much as 
she could of mechanical passiveness. She read the 
short epistle on to its concluding sentence, which idly 
requested Anna to send him a tender answer. 

“Now — you’ll do it for me, won’t you, dear mis- 
tress ?” said Anna, eagerly. “ And you’ll do it as well 
as ever you can, please? Because I couldn’t bear him 
to think I am not able to do it myself. I should sink 
into the earth with shame if he knew that !” 


92 


life’s little ironies 


From some words in the letter Mrs. Harnham was 
led to ask questions, and the answers she received 
confirmed her suspicions. Deep concern filled Edith’s 
heart at perceiving how the girl had committed her 
happiness to the issue of this new-sprung attachment. 
She blamed herself for not interfering in a flirtation 
which had resulted so seriously for the poor little 
creature in her charge ; though at the time of seeing 
the pair together she had a feeling that it was hardly 
within her province to nip young affection in the bud. 
However, what was done could not be undone, and it 
behooved her now, as Anna’s only protector, to help 
her as much as she could. To Anna’s eager request 
that she, Mrs. Harnham, should compose and write the 
answer to this young London man’s letter, she felt 
bound to accede, to keep alive his attachment to the 
girl if possible; though in other circumstances she 
might have suggested the cook as an amanuensis. 

A tender reply was thereupon concocted, and set 
down in Edith Harnham’s hand. This letter it had 
been which Raye had received and delighted in. 
Written in the presence of Anna it certainly was, and 
on Anna’s humble note-paper, and in a measure indited 
by the young girl; but the life, the spirit, the individ- 
uality, were Edith Harnham’s. 

“ Won’t you at least put your name yourself ?” she 
said. “ You can manage to write that by this time ?” 

“Ho, no,” said Anna, shrinking back. “ I should do 
it so bad. He’d be ashamed of me, and never see me 
again !” 

The note, so prettily requesting another from him, 
had, as we have seen, power enough in its pages to 
bring one. He declared it to be such a pleasure to 
hear from her that she must write every week. The 
same process of manufacture was accordingly repeated 
by Anna and her mistress, and continued for several 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


98 


weeks in succession, each letter being penned and 
suggested by Edith, the girl standing by; the answer 
read and commented on by Edith, Anna standing by 
and listening again. 

Lajte on a winter evening, after the despatch of the 
sixth letter, Mrs. Harnham was sitting alone by the 
remains of her fire. Her husband had retired to bed, 
and she had fallen into that fixity of musing which takes 
no count of hour or temperature. The state of mind 
had been brought about in Edith by a strange thing 
which she had done that day. For the first time since 
Raye’s visit Anna had gone to stay over a night or 
two with her cottage friends on the Plain, and in her 
absence had arrived, out of its time, a letter from Raye. 
To this Edith had replied on her own responsibility, 
from the depths of her own heart, without waiting for 
her maid’s collaboration. The luxury of writing to 
him what would be known to no consciousness but his 
was great, and she had indulged herself therein. 

Why was it a luxury ? 

Edith Harnham led a lonely life. Influenced by the 
belief of the British parent that a bad marriage with 
its aversions is better than free womanhood with its 
interests, dignity, and leisure, she had consented to 
marry the elderly wine-merchant as a pis alter , at the 
age of seven-and-twenty — some three years before this 
date — to find afterwards that she had made a mistake. 
That contract had left her still a woman whose deeper 
nature had never been stirred. 

She was now clearly realizing that she had become 
possessed to the bottom of her soul with the image of 
a man to whom she was hardly so much as a shape. 
From the first he had attracted her by his looks and 
voice, by his tender touch; and, with these as genera- 
tors, the writing of letter after letter and the reading 
of their soft answers had insensibly developed on her 


94 


life’s little ironies 


side an emotion which fanned his; till there had re- 
sulted a magnetic reciprocity between the correspond- 
ents, notwithstanding that one of them wrote in a 
character not her own. 

They were her own impassioned and pent-up ideas — 
lowered to monosyllabic phraseology in order to keep 
up the disguise — that Edith put into letters signed 
with another name, much to the shallow Anna’s de- 
light, who, unassisted, could not for the world have 
conceived such pretty fancies for winning him, even 
had she been able to write them. Edith found that it 
was these, her own foisted-in sentiments, to which the 
young barrister mainly responded. The few sentences 
occasionally added from Anna’s own lips made appar- 
ently no impression upon him. 

The letter-writing in her absence Anna never dis- 
covered; but on her return the next morning she de- 
clared she wished to see her lover about something at 
once, and begged Mrs. Harnham to ask him to come. 

There was a strange anxiety in her manner which 
did not escape Mrs. Harnham, and ultimately resolved 
itself into a flood of tears. Sinking down at Edith’s 
knees, she made confession that the result of her rela- 
tions with her lover it would soon become necessary to 
disclose. 

Edith Harnham was generous enough to be very far 
from inclined to cast Anna adrift at this conjuncture. 
No true woman is ever so inclined from her own per- 
sonal point of view, however prompt she may be in 
taking such steps to safeguard those dear to her. Al- 
though she had written to Rave so short a time pre- 
viously, she instantly penned another Anna-note hint- 
ing clearly though delicately the state of affairs. 

Raye replied by a hasty line to say how much he was 
affected by her news : he felt that he must run down 
to see her almost immediately. 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


95 


But a week later the girl came to her mistress’s 
room with another note, which on being read informed 
her that, after all, he could not find time for the 
journey. Anna was broken with grief ; but by Mrs. 
Harnham’s counsel strictly refrained from hurling at 
him the reproaches and bitterness customary from 
young women so situated. One thing was imperative: 
to keep the young man’s romantic interest in her alive. 
Rather therefore did Edith, in the name of her pro- 
tegee, request him on no account to be distressed about 
the looming event, and not to inconvenience himself 
to hasten down. She desired above everything to be 
no weight upon him in his career, no clog upon his 
high activities. She had wished him to know what 
had befallen; he was to dismiss it again from his mind. 
Only he must write tenderly as ever, and when he 
should come again on the spring circuit it would be 
time enough to discuss what had better be done. 

It may well be supposed that Anna’s own feelings 
had not been quite in accord with these generous ex- 
pressions; but the mistress’s judgment had ruled, and 
Anna had acquiesced. “All I want is that niceness 
you can so well put into your letters, my dear, dear 
mistress, and that I can’t for the life o’ me make up 
out of my own head; though I mean the same thing 
and feel it exactly when you’ve written it down !” 

When the letter had been sent off, and Edith Harn- 
ham was left alone, she bowed herself on the back 
of her chair and wept. 

“ I wish it was mine — I wish it was !” she murmured. 
“ Yet how can I say such a wicked thing !” 


96 


life’s little IRONIES 


Y 

The letter moved Raye considerably when it reached 
him. The intelligence itself had affected him less than 
her unexpected manner of treating him in relation to 
it. The absence of any word of reproach, the devotion 
to his interests, the self-sacrifice apparent in every 
line, all made up a nobility of character that he had 
never dreamed of finding in womankind. 

“ God forgive me !” he said, tremulously. “ I have 
been a wicked wretch. I did not know she was such 
a treasure as this !” 

He reassured her instantly ; declaring that he would 
not of course desert her, that he would provide a 
home for her somewhere. Meanwhile she was to stay 
where she was as long as her mistress would allow 
her. 

But a misfortune supervened in this direction. 
Whether an inkling of Anna’s circumstances reached 
the knowledge of Mrs. Harnham’s husband or not can- 
not be said, but the girl was compelled, in spite of 
Edith’s entreaties, to leave the house. By her own 
choice she decided to go back for a while to the cot- 
tage on the Plain. This arrangement led to a consul- 
tation as to how the correspondence should be carried 
on; and in the girl’s inability to continue personally 
what had been begun in her name, and in the difficulty 
of their acting in concert as heretofore, she requested 
Mrs. Harnham — the only well-to-do friend she had in 
the world — to receive the letters and reply to them 
off-hand, sending them on afterwards to herself on the 
Plain, where she might at least get some neighbor to 
read them to her, though disqualified from replying 
for her because of the hand. Anna and her box then 
departed for the Plain. 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


97 


Thus it befell that Edith Harnham found herself in 
the strange position of having to correspond, under no 
supervision by the real woman, with a man not her 
husband, in terms w T hich were virtually those of a 
wife, concerning a condition that was not Edith’s at 
all ; the man being one for whom, mainly through the 
sympathies involved in playing this part, she secretly 
cherished a predilection, subtle and imaginative truly, 
but strong and absorbing. She opened each letter, 
read it as if intended for herself, and replied from the 
promptings of her own heart and no other. 

Throughout this correspondence, carried on in the 
girl’s absence, the high-strung Edith Harnham lived 
in the ecstasy of fancy; the vicarious intimacy engen- 
dered such a flow of passionateness as was never ex- 
ceeded. For conscience’ sake Edith at first sent on 
each of his letters to Anna, and even rough copies of 
her replies ; but later on these so-called copies were 
much abridged, and many letters on both sides were 
not sent on at all. 

Though selfish, and, superficially at least, infested 
with the self-indulgent vices of artificial society, there 
was a substratum of honesty and fairness in Raye’s 
character. He had really a tender regard for the coun- 
try girl, and it grew more tender than ever when he 
found her apparently capable of expressing the deep- 
est sensibilities in the simplest words. He meditated, 
he wavered ; and finally resolved to consult his sister, 
a maiden lady much older than himself, of lively sym- 
pathies and good intent. In making this confidence 
he showed her some of the letters. 

“ She seems fairly educated,” Miss Raye observed, 
“ and bright in ideas. She expresses herself with a 
taste that must be innate.” 

“Yes. She writes very prettily, doesn’t she, thanks 
to these elementary schools.” 

7 


98 


life’s little ironies 


“ One is drawn out towards her, in spite of one’s 
self, poor thing!” 

The upshot of the discussion was that though he 
had not been directly advised to do it, Raye wrote, in 
his real name, what he would never have decided to 
write on his own responsibility — namely, that he could 
not live without her, and would come down in the 
spring and shelve her looming difficulty by marrying 
her. 

This bold acceptance of the situation was made 
known to Anna by Mrs. Harnham driving out imme- 
diately to the cottage on the Plain. Anna jumped 
for joy like a little child ; and poor, crude directions 
for answering appropriately were given to Edith Harn- 
ham, who on her return to the city carried them out 
with warm intensifications. 

“ Oh !” she groaned, as she threw down the pen. 
“Anna — poor good little fool — hasn’t intelligence 
enough to appreciate him. How should she ? While 
I — don’t bear his child !” 

It was now February. The correspondence had 
continued altogether for four months, and the next 
letter from Raye contained incidentally a statement 
of his position and prospects. He said that in offer- 
ing to wed her he had at first contemplated the 
step of retiring from a profession which hitherto had 
brought him very slight emolument, and which, to 
speak plainly, he had thought might be difficult of 
practice after his union with her. But the unexpect- 
ed mines of brightness and warmth that her letters 
had disclosed to be lurking in her sweet nature had 
led him to abandon that somewhat sad prospect. He 
felt sure that with her powers of development, after 
a little private training in the social forms of London 
under his supervision, and a little help from a govern- 
ess if necessary, she would make as good a profes- 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


99 


sioual man’s wife as could be desired, even if he should 
rise to the woolsack. Many a lord-chancellor’s wife 
had been less intuitively a lady than she had shown 
herself to be in her lines to him. 

“ Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow !” mourned Edith 
ITarnham. 

Her distress now raged as high as her infatuation. 
It was she who had wrought him to this pitch — to a 
marriage which meant his ruin; yet she could not, in 
mercy to her maid, do anything to hinder his plan. 
Anna was coming to Melchester that week, but she 
could hardly show the girl this last reply from the 
young man ; it told too much of the second individu- 
ality that had usurped the place of the first. 

Anna came, and her mistress took her into her own 
room for privacy. Anna began by saying with some 
anxiety that she was very glad the wedding was so 
near. 

“Oh, Anna!” replied Mrs. Harnham. “I think we 
must tell him all — that I have been doing your writing 
for you — lest he should not know it till after you be- 
come his wife, and it might lead to dissension and 
recriminations — ” 

“ Oh, mis’ess, dear mis’ess — please don’t tell him 
now!” cried Anna, in distress. “ If you were to do it, 
perhaps he would not marry me, and what should I 
do then? It would be terrible what would come to 
me ! And I am getting on with my writing, too. I 
have brought with me the copybook you were so good 
as to give me, and I practise every day, and though 
it is so, so hard, I shall do it well at last, I believe, if 
I keep on trying.” 

Edith looked at the copybook. The copies had 
been set by herself, and such progress as the girl had 
made was in the way of grotesque fac-simile of her 
mistress’s hand. But even if Edith’s flowing calig- 


100 


life’s little ironies 


raphy were reproduced the inspiration would be an- 
other thing. 

“You do it so beautifully,” continued Anna, “and 
say all that I want to say so much better than I could 
say it, that I do hope you won’t leave me in the lurch 
just now!” 

“Very well,” replied the other. “But I — but I 
thought I ought not to go on.” 

“Why?” 

Her strong desire to confide her sentiments led Edith 
to answer truly : 

“ Because of its effect upon me.” 

“But it can't have any!” 

“ Why, child ?” 

“ Because you are married already !” said Anna, 
with lucid simplicity. 

“Of course it can’t,” said her mistress, hastily ; yet . 
glad, despite her conscience, that two or three out- 
pourings still remained to her. “But you must con- 
centrate your attention on writing your name as I 
write it here.” 


VI 

Soon Raye wrote about the wedding. Having de- 
cided to make the best of what he feared was a piece 
of romantic folly, he had acquired more zest for the 
grand experiment. He wished the ceremony to be in 
London, for greater privacy. Edith Ilarnham would 
have preferred it at Melchester ; Anna was passive. 
His reasoning prevailed, and Mrs. Harnham threw 
herself with mournful zeal into the preparations for 
Anna’s departure. In a last desperate feeling that she 
must at every hazard be in at the death of her dream^ 


ON TI1E WESTERN CIRCUIT 


101 


and see once again the man who by a species of tel- 
epathy had exercised such an influence on her, she of- 
fered to go up with Anna and be with her through the 
ceremony — “ to see the end of her,” as her mistress 
put it with forced gayety ; an offer which the girl 
gratefully accepted ; for she had no other friend ca- 
pable of playing the part of companion and witness, in 
the presence of a gentlemanly bridegroom, in such a 
way as not to hasten an opinion that he had made an 
irremediable social blunder. 

It was a muddy morning in March when Raye 
alighted from a four-wheel cab at the door of a 
registry - office in the S. W. district of London, and 
carefully handed down Anna and her companion Mrs. 
Harnham. Anna looked attractive in the somewhat 
fashionable clothes which Mrs. Harnham had helped 
her to buy, though not quite so attractive as, an inno- 
cent child, she had appeared in her country gown on 
the back of the wooden horse at Melchester Fair. 

Mrs. Harnham had come up this morning by an 
early train, and a young man — a friend of Raye’s — 
having met them at the door, all four entered the 
registry-office together. Till an hour before this time 
Raye had never known the wine-merchant’s wife, ex- 
cept at that first casual encounter, and in the flutter 
of the performance before them he had little oppor- 
tunity for more than a brief acquaintance. The con- 
tract of marriage at a registry is soon got through; 
but somehow, during its progress, Raye discovered a 
strange and secret gravitation between himself and 
Anna’s friend. 

The formalities of the wedding — or rather ratifica- 
tion of a previous union — being concluded, the four 
went in one cab-to Raye’s lodgings, newly taken in a 
new suburb in preference to a house, the rent of which 
be could ill afford just then. Here Anna cut the little 


102 


life’s little ironies 


cake which Raye had bought at a pastry-cook’s on his 
way home from Lincoln’s Inn the night before. But 
she did not do much besides. Raye’s friend was 
obliged to depart almost immediately, and when he 
had left the only ones virtually present were Edith 
and Raye, who exchanged ideas with much animation. 
The conversation was indeed theirs only, Anna being 
as a domestic animal who humbly heard but under- 
stood not. Raye seemed startled in awakening to this 
fact, and began to feel dissatisfied with her inade- 
quacy. 

At last, more disappointed than he cared to own, he 
said, “Mrs. Harnham, my darling is so flurried that 
she doesn’t know what she is doing or saying. I see 
that after this event a little quietude will be neces- 
sary before she gives tongue to that tender philosophy 
which she used to treat me to in her letters.” 

They had planned to start early that afternoon for 
Knollsea, to spend the few opening days of their mar- 
ried life there, and as the hour for departure was 
drawing near Raye asked his wife if she would go to 
the writing-desk in the next room and scribble a little 
note to his sister, who had been unable to attend 
through indisposition, informing her that the cere- 
mony was over, thanking her for her little present, and 
hoping to know her well now that she was the writer’s 
sister as well as Charles’s. 

“ Say it in the pretty poetical way you know so well 
how to adopt,” he added, “ for I want you particularly 
to win her, and both of you to be dear friends.” 

Anna looked uneasy, but departed to her task, Raye 
remaining to talk to their guest. Anna was a long 
while absent, and her husband suddenly rose and went 
to her. 

He found her still bending over the writing-table, 
with tears brimming up in her eyes ; and he looked 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


103 


down upon the sheet of note-paper with some interest, 
to discover with what tact she had expressed her good- 
will in the delicate circumstances. To his surprise 
she had progressed but a few lines, in the characters 
and spelling of a child of eight, and with the ideas of 
a goose. 

“ Anna,” he said, staring ; “ what’s this ?” 

“ It only means — that I can’t do it any better !” she 
answered, through her tears. 

“Eh? Nonsense!” 

“ I can’t !” she insisted, with miserable, sobbing 
hardihood. “ I — I — didn’t write those letters, Charles ; 
I only told her what to write, and not always that ! 
But I am learning, oh, so fast, my dear, dear husband ! 
And you’ll forgive me, won’t you, for not telling you 
before ?” She slid to her knees, abjectly clasped his 
waist, and laid her face against him. 

He stood a few moments, raised her, abruptly 
turned, and shut the door upon her, rejoining Edith 
in the drawing-room. She saw that something untow- 
ard had been discovered, and their eyes remained 
fixed on each other. 

“ Do I guess rightly?” he asked, with wan quietude. 
“ You were her scribe through all this ?” 

“ It was necessary,” said Edith. 

“ Did she dictate every word you ever wrote to me ?” 

“Not every word.” 

“ In fact, very little ?” 

“ Very little.” 

“ You wrote a great part of those pages every week 
from your own conceptions, though in her name?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Perhaps you wrote many of the letters when you 
were alone, without communication with her ?” 

“I did.” 

He turned to the bookcase, and leaned with his 


104 


life’s little ironies 


hand over his face ; and Edith, seeing his distress, be- 
came white as a sheet. 

“You have deceived me — ruined me!” he mur- 
mured. 

“ Oh, don’t say it !” she cried in her anguish, jump- 
ing up and putting her hand on his shoulder. “ I can’t 
bear that !” 

“Delighting me deceptively. Why did you do it 
— why did you ?” 

“ I began doing it in kindness to her. How could I 
do otherwise than try to save such a simple girl from 
misery? But I admit that I continued it for pleasure 
to myself.” 

Kaye looked up. “ Why did it give you pleasure ?” 
he asked. 

“ I must not tell,” said she. 

He continued to regard her, and saw that her lips 
suddenly began to quiver under his scrutiny, and her 
eyes to fill and droop. She started aside, and said that 
she must go to the station to catch the return train ; 
could a cab be called immediately ? 

But Kaye went up to her, and took her unresisting 
hand. “Well, to think of such a thing as this !” he 
said. “ Why, you and I are friends — lovers — devoted 
lovers— by correspondence !”' 

“ Yes; I suppose.” 

“ More.” 

“More ?” 

“ Plainly more. It is no use blinking that. Legally 
I have married her — God help us both ! — in soul and 
spirit I have married you, and no other woman in the 
world !” 

“Hush l” 

“ But I will not hush ! Why should you try to dis- 
guise the full truth, when you have already owned half 
of it? Yes, it is between you and me that the bond 


ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT 


105 


is — not between me and her ! Now I’ll say no more. 
But, oli, my cruel one, I think I have one claim upon 
you !” 

She did not say what, and he drew her towards him, 
and bent over her. “ If it was all pure invention in 
those letters,” he said, emphatically, “give me your 
cheek only. If you meant what you said, let it be 
lips. It is for the first and last time, remember !” 

She put up her mouth, and he kissed her long. “You 
forgive me ?” she said, crying. 

“ Yes.” 

“ But you are ruined !” 

“ What matter !” he said, shrugging his shoulders. 
“ It serves me right !” 

She withdrew, wiped her eyes, entered and bade 
good-bye to Anna, who had not expected her to go so 
soon, and was still wrestling with the letter. Raye 
followed Edith down-stairs, and in three minutes she 
was in a hansom driving to the Waterloo station. 

He went back to his wife. “Never mind the letter, 
Anna, to-day,” he said, gently. “ Put on your things; 
we, too, must be off shortly.” 

The simple girl, upheld by the sense that she was 
indeed married, showed her delight at finding that he 
was as kind as ever after the disclosure. She did not 
know that before his eyes he beheld as it were a gal- 
ley, in which he, the fastidious urban, was chained to 
work for the remainder of his life, with her, the unlet- 
tered peasant chained to his side. 

Edith travelled back to Melchester that day with a 
face that showed the very stupor of grief. The end 
of her impassioned dream had come. When at dusk 
she reached the Melchester station her husband was 
there to meet her, but in his perfunctoriness and her 
preoccupation they did not see each other, and she 
went out of the station alone. 


106 


life’s little ironies 


She walked mechanically homeward without call- 
ing a fly. Entering, she could not bear the silence of 
the house, and went up in the dark to where Anna had 
slept, where she remained thinking awhile. She then 
returned to the drawing-room, and not knowing what 
she did, crouched down upon the floor. 

“ I have ruined him!” she kept repeating — “ I have 
ruined him ; because I would not deal treacherously 
towards her!” 

In the course of half an hour a figure opened the 
door of the apartment. 

“ Ah — who’s that ?” she said, starting up, for it was 
dark. 

“Your husband. Who should it be?” said the wor- 
thy merchant. 

“ Ah — my husband ! — I forgot I had a husband !” 
she whispered to herself. 

“I missed you at the station,” he continued. “Did 
you see Anna safely tied up ? I hope so, for ’twas 
time.” 

“ Yes — Anna is married.” 

Simultaneously with Edith’s journey home, Anna 
and her husband were sitting at the opposite windows 
of a second-class carriage which sped along to Knoll- 
sea. In his hand was a pocket-book full of creased 
sheets closely written over. Unfolding them one after 
another he read them in silence and sighed. 

“ What are you doing, dear Charles ?” she said, tim- 
idly, from the other window, and drew nearer to him 
as if he were a god. 

“ Reading over all those sweet letters to me signed 
* Anna,’ ” he replied, with dreary resignation. 


Autumn, 1891. 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


I 

The interior of St. James’s Church, in Havenpool 
Town, was slowly darkening under the close clouds of 
a winter afternoon. It was Sunday — service had just 
ended, the face of the parson in the pulpit was buried 
in his hands, and the congregation, with a cheerful 
sigh of release, were rising from their knees to de- 
part. 

For the moment the stillness was so complete that 
the surging of the sea could be heard outside the 
harbor-bar. Then it was broken by the footsteps of 
the clerk going towards the west door to open it in 
the usual manner for the exit of the assembly. Before, 
however, he had reached the doorway, the latch was 
lifted from without, and the dark figure of a man in a 
sailor’s garb appeared against the light. 

The clerk stepped aside, the sailor closed the door 
gently behind him, and advanced up the nave till he 
stood at the chancel-step. The parson looked up from 
the private little prayer which, after so many for the 
parish, he quite fairly took for himself, rose to his 
feet, and stared at the intruder. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the sailor, addressing 
the minister in a voice distinctly audible to all the 
congregation. “ I have come here to offer thanks for 


108 


life’s little ironies 


my narrow escape from shipwreck. I am given to 
understand that it is a proper thing to do, if you have 
no objection?” 

The parson, after a moment’s pause, said, hesitat- 
ingly, “I have no objection; certainly. It is usual to 
mention any such wish before service, so that the 
proper words may be used in the General Thanks- 
giving. But, if you wish, we can read from the form 
for use after a storm at sea.” 

“ Aye, sure ; I ain’t particular,” said the sailor. 

The clerk thereupon directed the sailor to the page 
in the prayer-book where the collect of thanksgiving 
would be found, and the rector began reading it, the 
sailor kneeling where he stood, and repeating it after 
him word by word in a distinct voice. The people, 
who had remained agape and motionless at the pro- 
ceeding, mechanically knelt down likewise; but they 
continued to regard the isolated form of the sailor 
who, in the precise middle of the chancel -step, re- 
mained fixed on his knees, facing the east, his hat be- 
side him, his hands joined, and he quite unconscious 
of his appearance in their regard. 

When his thanksgiving had come to an end, he 
arose; the people arose also, and all went out of church 
together. As soon as the sailor emerged, so that the 
remaining daylight fell upon his face, old inhabitants 
began to recognize him as no other than Shadrach 
Jolliffe, a young man who had not been seen at Haven- 
pool for several years. A son of the town, his parents 
had died when he was quite young, on which account 
he had early gone to sea, in the Newfoundland trade. 

He talked with this and that townsman as he walked, 
informing them that, since leaving his native place 
years before, he had become captain and owner of 
a small coasting-ketch, which had providentially been 
saved from the gale as well as himself. Presently he 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


109 


drew near to two girls who were going out of the 
church-yard in front of him; they had been sitting in 
the nave at his entry, and had watched his doings with 
deep interest, afterwards discussing him as they moved 
out of church together. One was a slight and gentle 
creature, the other a tall, large-framed, deliberative 
girl. Captain Jolliffe regarded the loose curls of their 
hair, their backs and shoulders, down to their heels, for 
some time. 

“ Who may them two maids be ?” he whispered to 
his neighbor. 

“ The little one is Emily Hanning ; the tall one, Jo- 
anna Phippard.” 

“ Ah ! I recollect ’em now, to be sure.” 

He advanced to their elbow, and genially stole a 
gaze at them. 

“ Emily, you don’t know me ?” said the sailor, turn- 
ing his beaming brown eyes on her. 

“ I think I do, Mr. Jolliffe,” said Emily, shyly. 

The other girl looked straight at him with her dark 
eyes. 

“The face of Miss Joanna I don’t call to mind so 
well,” he continued. “ But I know her beginnings and 
kindred.” 

They walked and talked together, Jolliffe narrating 
particulars of his late narrow escape, till they reached 
the corner of Sloop Lane, in which Emily Hanning 
dwelt, when, with a nod and smile, she left them. Soon 
the sailor parted also from Joanna, and, having no es- 
pecial errand or appointment, turned back towards 
Emily’s house. She lived with her father, who called 
himself an accountant, the daughter, however, keeping 
a little stationery-shop as a supplemental provision for 
the gaps of his somewhat uncertain business. On 
entering, Jolliffe found father and daughter about to 
begin tea. 


110 


life’s little ironies 


“ Oh, I didn’t know it was tea-time,” he said. “Aye, 
I’ll have a cup with much pleasure.” 

He remained to tea and long afterwards, telling 
more tales of his seafaring life. Several neighbors 
called to listen, and were asked to come in. Somehow, 
Emily Hanning lost her heart to the sailor that Sun- 
day night, and in the course of a week or two there 
was a tender understanding between them. 

One moonlight evening in the next month Shadrach 
was ascending out of the town by the long straight 
road eastward, to an elevated suburb where the more 
fashionable houses stood — if anything near this ancient 
port could be called fashionable — when he saw a figure 
before him whom, from her manner of glancing back, 
he took to be Emily; but, on coming up, he found she 
was Joanna Phippard. He gave a gallant greeting, 
and walked beside her. 

“ Go along,” she said, “ or Emily will be jealous!” 

He seemed not to like the suggestion, and remained. 

What was said and what was done on that walk 
never could be clearly recollected by Shadrach ; but 
in some way or other Joanna contrived to wean him 
away from her gentler and younger rival. From that 
week onward, Jollifie was seen more and more in the 
wake of Joanna Phippard and less in the company of 
Emily; and it was soon rumored about the quay that 
old Jolliffe’s son, who had come home from sea, was 
going to be married to the former young woman, to 
the great disappointment of the latter. 

J ust after this report had gone about, J oanna dressed 
herself for a walk one morning, and started for Emily’s 
house in the little cross -street. Intelligence of the 
deep sorrow of her friend on account of the loss of 
Shadrach had reached her ears also, and her conscience 
reproached her for winning him away. 

Joanna was not altogether satisfied with the sailor. 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


111 


She liked his attentions, and she coveted the dignity 
of matrimony; but she had never been deeply in love 
with Jolliffe. For one thing, she was ambitious, and 
socially his position was hardly so good as her own, 
and there was always the chance of an attractive wom- 
an mating considerably above her. It had long been 
in her mind that she would not strongly object to give 
him back again to Emily if her friend felt so very 
badly about him. To this end she had written a letter 
of renunciation to Shadrach, which letter she carried in 
her hand, intending to post it if personal observation 
of Emily convinced her that her friend was suffering. 

Joanna entered Sloop Lane and stepped down into 
the stationery-shop, which was below the pavement 
level. Emily’s father was never at home at this hour 
of the day, and it seemed as though Emily were not 
at home either, for the visitor could make nobody 
hear. Customers came so seldom hither that a five 
minutes’ absence of the proprietor counted for little. 
Joanna waited in the little shop, where Emily had 
tastefully set out — as women can — articles in them- 
selves of slight value, so as to obscure the meagreness 
of the stock-in-trade, till she saw a figure pausing 
without the window apparently absorbed in the con- 
templation of the sixpenny books, packets of paper, 
and prints hung on a string. It was Captain Shadrach 
Jolliffe, peering in to ascertain if Emily were there 
alone. Moved by an impulse of reluctance to meet 
him in a spot which breathed of Emily, she slipped 
through the door that communicated with the parlor 
at the back. Joanna had frequently done so before, for 
in her friendship with Emily she had the freedom of 
the house without ceremony. 

Jolliffe entered the shop. Through the thin blind 
which screened the glass partition she could see that 
he was disappointed at not finding Emily there. He 


112 


life’s little ikonies 


was about to go out again, when Emily’s form dark- 
ened the doorway, hastening home from some errand. 
At sight of Jolliffe she started back as if she would 
have gone out again. 

“Don’t run away, Emily; don’t!” said he. “What 
can make ye afraid ?” 

“I’m not afraid, Captain Jolliffe. Only — only I saw 
you all of a sudden, and — it made me jump !” Her 
voice showed that her heart had jumped even more 
than the rest of her. 

“I just called as I was passing,” he said. 

“ For some paper ?” She hastened behind the 
counter. 

“ No, no, Emily; why do ye get behind there ? Why 
not stay by me ? You seem to hate me.” 

“ I don’t hate you. How can I ?” 

“ Then come out, so that we can talk like Christians.” 

Emily obeyed with a fitful laugh, till she stood again 
beside him in the open part of the shop. 

“ There’s a dear,” he said. 

“You mustn’t say that, Captain Jolliffe; because 
the words belong to somebody else.” 

“ Ah ! I know what you mean. But, Emily, upon 
my life I didn’t know till this morning that you cared 
one bit about me, or I should not have done as I 
have done. I have the best of feelings for Joanna, 
but I know that from the beginning she hasn’t cared 
for me more than in a friendly way; and I see now 
the one I ought to have asked to be my wife. You 
know, Emily, when a man comes home from sea after 
a long voyage he’s as blind as a bat — he can’t see 
who’s who in women. They are all alike to him, 
beautiful creatures, and he takes the first that comes 
easy, without thinking if she loves him, or if he might 
not soon love another better than her. From the first 
I inclined to you most, but you were so backward and 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


113 


shy that I thought you didn’t want me to bother ’ee, 
and so I went to Joanna.” 

“Don’t say any more, Mr. Jolliffe, don’t !” said she, 
choking. “You are going to marry Joanna next 
month, and it is wrong to — to — ” 

“ Oh, Emily, my darling !” he cried, and clasped her 
little figure in his arms before she was aware. 

Joanna, behind the curtain, turned pale, tried to 
withdraw her eyes, but could not. 

“It is only you I love as a man ought to love the 
woman he is going to marry; and I know this from 
what J oanna has said — that she will willingly let me 
off ! She wants to marry higher, I know, and only 
said ‘Yes’ to me out of kindness. A fine, tall girl 
like her isn’t the sort for a plain sailor’s wife; you be 
the best suited for that.” 

He kissed her and kissed her again, her flexible 
form quivering in the agitation of his embrace. 

“ I wonder — are you sure — Joanna is going to break 
off with you ? Oh, are you sure ? Because — ” 

“ I know she would not wish to make us miserable. 
She will release me.” 

“Oh, I hope — I hope she will! Don’t stay any 
longer, Captain Jolliffe !” 

He lingered, however, till a customer came for a 
penny stick of sealing-wax, and then he withdrew. 

Green envy had overspread Joanna at the scene. 
She looked about for a way of escape. To get out 
without Emily’s knowledge of her visit was indispen- 
sable. She crept from the parlor into the passage, and 
thence to the front door of the house, where she let 
herself noiselessly into the street. 

The sight of that caress had reversed all her reso- 
lutions. She could not let Shadrach go. Reaching 
home, she burned the letter, and told her mother that if 
Captain Jolliffe called she was too unwell to see him. 

8 


114 


life’s little ironies 


Shadrach, however, did not call. He sent her a note 
expressing in simple language the state of his feelings; 
and asked to be allowed to take advantage of the 
hints she had given him that her affection, too, was lit- 
tle more than friendly, by cancelling the engagement. 

Looking out upon the harbor and the island beyond, 
he waited and waited in his lodgings for an answer 
that did not come. The suspense grew to be so in- 
tolerable that after dark he went up the high street. 
He could not resist calling at Joanna’s to learn his 
fate. 

Her mother said her daughter was too unwell to see 
him, and to his questioning admitted that it was in 
consequence of a letter received from himself, which 
had distressed her deeply. 

“ You know what it was about, perhaps, Mrs. Phip- 
pard ?” he said. 

Mrs. Phippard owned that she did, adding that it 
put them in a very painful position. Thereupon Sha- 
drach, fearing that he had been guilty of an enormity, 
explained that if his letter had pained Joanna it must 
be owing to a misunderstanding, since he had thought 
it would be a relief to her. If otherwise, he would 
hold himself bound by his word, and she was to think 
of the letter as never having been written. 

Next morning he received an oral message from the 
young woman, asking him to fetch her home from a 
meeting that evening. This he did, and while walk- 
ing from the Town-hall to her door, with her hand in 
his arm, she said : 

“It is all the same as before between us, isn’t it, 
Shadrach? Your letter was sent in mistake?” 

“ It is all the same as before,” he answered, “ if you 
say it must be.” 

“ I wish it to be,” she murmured, with hard linea- 
ments, as she thought of Emily. 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


115 


Shadrach was a religious and scrupulous man, who 
respected his word as his life. Shortly afterwards the 
wedding took place, Jolliffe having conveyed to Emily 
as gently as possible the error he had fallen into when 
estimating J oanna’s mood as one of indifference. 


II 

A month after the marriage Joanna’s mother died, 
and the couple were obliged to turn their attention to 
very practical matters. Now that she was left with- 
out a parent, Joanna could not bear the notion of her 
husband going to sea again ; but the question was, 
What could he do at home ? They finally decided 
to take on a grocer’s shop in the high street, the good- 
will and stock of which were waiting to be disposed 
of at that time. Shadrach knew T nothing of shopkeep- 
ing, and Joanna very little, but they hoped to learn. 

To the management of this grocery business they 
now devoted all their energies, and continued to con- 
duct it for many succeeding years, without great suc- 
cess. Two sons were born to them, whom their mother 
loved to idolatry, although she had never passionately 
loved her husband; and she lavished upon them all 
her forethought and care. But the shop did not 
thrive, and the large dreams she had entertained of 
her sons’ education and career became attenuated in 
the face of realities. Their schooling was of the 
plainest, but, being by the sea, they grew alert in all 
such nautical arts and enterprises as were attractive 
to their age. 

The great interest of the Jollifies’ married life, out- 
side their own immediate household, had lain in the 
marriage of Emily. By one of those odd chances 


116 


life’s little ironies 


which lead those that lurk in unexpected corners to be 
discovered, while the obvious are passed by, the gentle 
girl had been seen and loved by a thriving merchant 
of the town, a widower, some years older than herself, 
though still in the prime of life. At first Emily had 
declared that she never, never could marry any one ; 
but Mr. Lester had quietly persevered, and had at last 
won her reluctant assent. Two children also were the 
fruits of this union, and, as they grew and prospered, 
Emily declared that she had never supposed that she 
could live to be so happy. 

The worthy merchant’s home, one of those large, 
substantial brick mansions frequently jammed up in 
old-fashioned towns, faced directly on the high street, 
nearly opposite to the grocery-shop of the Jolliffes, 
and it now became the pain of Joanna to behold the 
woman whose place she had usurped out of pure cov- 
etousness looking down from her position of compar- 
ative wealth upon the humble shop- window with its 
dusty sugar-loaves, heaps of raisins, and canisters of 
tea, over which it w T as her own lot to preside. The 
business having so dwindled, Joanna was obliged to 
serve in the shop herself, and it galled and mortified 
her that Emily Lester, sitting in her large drawing- 
room over the way, could witness her own dancings 
up and down behind the counter at the beck and call 
of wretched twopenny customers, whose patronage 
she was driven to welcome gladly; persons to whom 
she was compelled to be civil in the street, while 
Emily was bounding along with her children and 
her governess, and conversing with the genteelest 
people of the town and neighborhood. This w^as 
what she had gained by not letting Shadrach Jolliffe, 
whom she had so faintly loved, carry his affection 
elsewhere. 

Shadrach was a good and honest man, and he had 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


117 


been faithful to her in heart and in deed. Time had 
clipped the wings of his love for Emily in his devo- 
tion to the mother of his boys ; he had quite lived 
down that impulsive earlier fancy, and Emily had be- 
come in his regard nothing more than a friend. It 
was the same with Emily’s feelings for him. Possi- 
bly, had she found the least cause for jealousy, Joan- 
na would almost have been better satisfied. It was 
in the absolute acquiescence of Emily and Shadrach 
in the results she herself had contrived that her dis- 
content found nourishment. 

Shadrach was not endowed with the narrow shrewd- 
ness necessary for developing a retail business in the 
face of many competitors. Did a customer inquire if 
the grocer could really recommend the wondrous sub- 
stitute for eggs which a persevering bagman had forced 
into his stock, he would answer that “ when you did 
not put eggs into a pudding it was difficult to taste 
them there ” ; and when he was asked if his “ real 
Mocha coffee ” was real Mocha, he would say, grimly, 
“ as understood in small shops.” 

One summer day, when the big brick house oppo- 
site was reflecting the oppressive sun’s heat into the 
shop, and nobody was present but husband and wife, 
Joanna looked across at Emily’s door, where a wealthy 
visitor’s carriage had drawn up. Traces of patronage 
had been visible in Emily’s manner of late. 

“Shadrach, the truth is, you are not a business- 
man,” his wife sadly murmured. “You were not 
brought up to shopkeeping, and it is impossible for a 
man to make a fortune at an occupation he has jumped 
into, as you did into this.” 

Jolliffe agreed with her, in this as in everything else. 
“ Not that I care a rope’s end about making a fortune,” 
he said, cheerfully. “ I am happy enough, and we can 
rub on somehow.” 


118 


life’s little ironies 


She looked again at the great house through the 
screen of bottled pickles. 

“ Rub on — yes,” she said, bitterly. “ But see how 
well off Emily Lester is, who used to be so poor ! 
Her boys will go to college, no doubt ; and think of 
yours — obliged to go to the parish school.” 

Shadrach’s thoughts had flown to Emily. 

“Nobody,” he said, good-humoredly, “ ever did Em- 
ily a better turn than you did, Joanna, when you warned 
her off me and put an end to that little simpering non- 
sense between us, so as to leave it in her power to say 
‘ Aye ’ to Lester when he came along.” 

This almost maddened her. 

“ Don’t speak of by-gones !” she implored, in stern 
sadness. “ But think, for the boys’ and my sake, if 
not for your own, what are we to do to get richer?” 

“Well,” he said, becoming serious, “ to tell the truth, 
I have always felt myself unfit for this business, though 
I’ve never liked to say so. I seem to want more room 
for sprawling ; a more open space to strike out in than 
here among friends and neighbors. I could get rich 
as well as any man, if I tried my own way.” 

“ I wish you would ! What is your way ?” 

“ To go to sea again.” 

She had been the very one to keep him at home, 
hating the semi-widowed existence of sailors’ wives. 
But her ambition checked her instincts now, and she 
said : 

“ Do you think success really lies that way ?” 

“I am sure it lies in no other.” 

“ Do you want to go, Shadrach ?” 

“Not for the pleasure of it, I can tell ’ee. There’s 
no such pleasure at sea, Joanna, as I can find in my 
back parlor here. To speak honest, I have no love 
for the brine. I never had much. But if it comes to 
a question of a fortune for you and the lads, it is an- 


119 


1T0 PLEASE HIS WIPE 

other thing. That’s the only way to it for one born 
and bred a seafarer as I.” 

“ Would it take long to earn ?” 

“Well, that depends; perhaps not.” 

The next morning Shadrach pulled from a chest of 
drawers the nautical jacket he had worn during the 
first months of his return, brushed out the moths, 
donned it, and walked down to the quay. The port 
still did a fair business in the Newfoundland trade, 
though not so much as formerly. 

It was not long after this that he invested all he 
possessed in purchasing a part ownership in a brig, of 
which he was appointed captain. A few months were 
passed in coast trading, during which interval Sha- 
drach wore off the land -rust that had accumulated 
upon him in his grocery phase; and in the spring the 
brig sailed for Newfoundland. 

Joanna lived on at home with her sons, who were 
now growing up into strong lads, and occupying them- 
selves in various ways about the harbor and quay. 

“Never mind, let them work a little,” their fond 
mother said to herself. “Our necessities compel it 
now, but when Shadrach comes home they will be 
only seventeen and eighteen, and they shall be re- 
moved from the port, and their education thoroughly 
taken in hand by a tutor; and with the money they’ll 
have they will perhaps be as near to gentlemen as 
Emmy Lester’s precious two, with their algebra and 
their Latin!” 

The date for Shadrach’s return drew near and ar- 
rived, and he did not appear. Joanna was assured 
that there was no cause for anxiety, sailing-ships be- 
ing so uncertain in their coming; which assurance 
proved to be well-grounded, for late one wet evening, 
about a month after the calculated time, the ship was 
announced as at hand, and presently the slip-slop step 


120 


life’s little ironies 


of Shadrach as the sailor sounded in the passage, and 
he entered. The boys had gone out and had missed 
him, and Joanna was sitting alone. 

As soon as the first emotion of reunion between the 
couple had passed, Jolliffe explained the delay as ow- 
ing to a small speculative contract, which had produced 
good results. 

“ I was determined not to disappoint ’ee,” he said ; 
“ and I think you’ll own that I haven’t !” 

With this he pulled out an enormous canvas bag, 
full and rotund as the money-bag of the giant whom 
Jack slew, untied it, and shook the contents out into 
her lap as she sat in her low chair by the fire. A 
mass of guineas (there were guineas on the earth in 
those days) fell into her lap with a sudden thud, weigh- 
ing down her gown to the floor. 

“ There!” said Shadrach, complacently. “ I told ’ee, 
dear, I’d do it; and have I done it or no ?” 

Somehow her face, after the first excitement of pos- 
session, did not retain its glory. 

“ It is a lot of gold, indeed,” she said. “ And — is 
this all?” 

“All? Why, dear Joanna, do you know you can 
count to three hundred in that heap? It is a fort- 
une !” 

“Yes — yes. A fortune — judged by sea; but judged 
by land — ” 

However, she banished considerations of the money 
for the nonce. Soon the boys came in, and next Sun- 
day Shadrach returned thanks to God — this time by 
the more ordinary channel of the italics in the Gen- 
eral Thanksgiving. But a few days after, when the 
question of investing the money arose, he remarked 
that she did not seem so satisfied as he had hoped. 

“Well, you see, Shadrach,” she answered, “we count 
by hundreds; they count by thousands ” (nodding tow* 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


121 


ards the other side of the street). “They have set up 
a carriage and pair since you left.” 

“ Oh ! have they ?” 

“My dear Shadrach, you don’t know how the world 
moves. However, we’ll do the best we can with it. 
But they are rich, and we are poor still !” 

The greater part of a year was desultorily spent. 
She moved sadly about the house and shop, and the 
boys were still occupying themselves in and around 
the harbor. 

“Joanna,” he said, one day, “I see by your move- 
ments that it is not enough.” 

“ It is not enough,” said she. “ My boys will have 
to live by steering the ships that the Lesters own; and 
I was once above her !” 

Jolliffe was not an argumentative man, and he only 
murmured that he thought he would make another 
voyage. He meditated for several days, and com- 
ing home from the quay one afternoon said, sud- 
denly : 

“ I could do it for ’ee, dear, in one more trip, for 
certain, if — if — ” 

“ Do what, Shadrach ?” 

“ Enable ’ee to count by thousands instead of hun- 
dreds.” 

“If what?” 

“ If I might take the boys.” 

She turned pale. 

“ Don’t say that, Shadrach,” she answered, hastily. 

“ Why ?” 

“ I don’t like to hear it. There’s danger at sea. I 
want them to be something genteel, and no danger to 
them. I couldn’t let them risk their lives at sea. Oh, 
I couldn’t ever, ever !” 

“Very well, dear, it sha’n’t be done.” 

Next day, after a silence, she asked a question: 


122 


life’s little ironies 


“ If they were to go with you it would make a great 
deal of difference, I suppose, to the profit?” 

“ ’Twould treble what I should get from the vent- 
ure single-handed. Under my eye they would be as 
good as two more of myself.” 

Later on she said : “ Tell me more about this.” 

“Well, the boys are almost as clever as master- 
mariners in handling a craft, upon my life ! There 
isn’t a more cranky place in the South Seas than about 
the sand-banks of this harbor, and they’ve practised 
here from their infancy. And they are so steady. I 
couldn’t get their steadiness and their trustworthiness 
in half a dozen men twice their age.” 

“ And is it very dangerous at sea ; now, too, there 
are rumors of war ?” she asked, uneasily. 

“ Oh, well, there be risks. Still — ” 

The idea grew and magnified, and the mother’s heart 
was crushed and stifled by it. Emmy was growing 
too patronizing; it could not be borne. Shadrach’s 
wife could not help nagging him about their compar- 
ative poverty. The young men, amiable as their fa- 
ther, when spoken to on the subject of a voyage of 
enterprise, were quite willing to embark; and though 
they, like their father, had no great love for the sea, 
they became quite enthusiastic when the proposal was 
detailed. 

Everything now hung upon their mother’s assent. 
She withheld it long, but at last gave the word : the 
young men might accompany their father. Shadrach 
was unusually cheerful about it. Heaven had preserved 
him hitherto, and he had uttered his thanks. God 
would not forsake those who were faithful to him. 

All that the Jollifies possessed in the world was put 
into the enterprise. The grocery stock was pared 
down to the least that possibly could afford a bare 
sustenance to Joanna during the absence, which was 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


123 


to last through the usual “New-f’nland spell.” How 
she would endure the weary time she hardly knew, for 
the boys had been with her formerly ; but she nerved 
herself for the trial. 

The ship was laden with boots and shoes, ready- 
made clothing, fishing-tackle, butter, cheese, cordage, 
sail-cloth, and many other commodities; and was to 
bring back oil, furs, skins, fish, cranberries, and what 
else came to hand. But much trading to other ports 
was to be undertaken between the voyages out and 
homeward, and thereby much money made. 


Ill 

The brig sailed on a Monday morning in spring ; 
but Joanna did not witness its departure. She could 
not bear the sight that she had been the means of 
bringing about. Knowing this, her husband told her 
overnight that they were to sail some time before 
noon next day ; hence when, awakening at five the 
next morning, she heard them bustling about down- 
stairs, she did not hasten to descend, but lay trying to 
nerve herself for the parting, imagining they would 
leave about nine, as her husband had done on his 
previous voyage. When she did descend she beheld 
words chalked upon the sloping face of the bureau ; 
but no husband or sons. In the hastily-scrawled lines 
Shadrach said they had gone off thus not to pain her 
by a leave-taking ; and the sons had chalked under his 
words : “ Good-bye, mother.” 

She rushed to the quay and looked down the harbor 
towards the blue rim of the sea, but she could only 
see the masts and bulging sails of the Joanna ; no 
human figures. “’Tis I have sent them !” she said, 


124 


life's little ironies 


wildly, and burst into tears. In the house the chalked 
“ Good-bye ” nearly broke her heart. But when she 
had re-entered the front-room and looked across at 
Emily’s, a gleam of triumph lit her thin face at her 
anticipated release from the thraldom of subservience. 

To do Emily Lester justice, her assumption of su- 
periority was mainly a figment of Joanna’s brain. 
That the circumstances of the merchant’s wife were 
more luxurious than Joanna’s, the former could not 
conceal ; though whenever the two met, which was 
not very often now, Emily endeavored to subdue the 
difference by every means in her power. 

The first summer lapsed away, and Joanna meagre- 
ly maintained herself by the shop, which now con- 
sisted of little more than a window and a counter. 
Emily was, in truth, her only large customer ; and 
Mrs. Lester’s kindly readiness to buy anything and 
everything without questioning the quality had a sting 
of bitterness in it, for it was the uncritical attitude of 
a patron, and almost of a donor. The long, dreary 
winter moved on ; the face of the bureau had been 
turned to the wall to protect the chalked words of 
farewell, for Joanna could never bring herself to rub 
them out, and she often glanced at them with wet 
eyes. Emily’s handsome boys came home for the 
Christmas holidays ; the university was talked of for 
them ; and still Joanna subsisted, as it were, with held 
breath, like a person submerged. Only one summer 
more, and the spell would end. Towards the end of 
the time Emily called on her quondam friend. She 
had heard that J oanna began to feel anxious ; she 
had received no letter from husband or sons for some 
months. Emily’s silks rustled arrogantly when, in 
response to Joanna’s almost dumb invitation, she 
squeezed through the opening of the counter and into 
the parlor behind the shop. 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


125 


“You are all success, and I am all the other way!” 
said Joanna. 

“ But why do you think so ?” said Emily. “ They 
are to bring back a fortune, I hear.” 

“Ah! will they come? The doubt is more than a 
woman can bear. All three in one ship — think of 
that ! And I have not heard of them for months !” 

“ But the time is not up. You should not meet mis- 
fortune half-way.” 

“Nothing will repay me for the grief of their ab- 
sence.” 

“ Then why did you let them go ? You were do- 
ing fairly well.” 

“I made them go!” she said, turning vehemently 
upon Emily. “And I’ll tell you why. I could not 
bear that we should be only muddling on, and you so 
rich and thriving. Now I have told you, and you 
may hate me if you will!” 

“ I shall never hate you, Joanna.” 

And she proved the truth of her words afterwards. 
The end of autumn came and the brig should have 
been in port, but nothing like the Joanna appeared in 
the channel between the sands. It was now really 
time to be uneasy. Joanna Jolliffe sat by the fire, 
and every gust of wind caused her a cold thrill. She 
had always feared and detested the sea; to her it was 
a treacherous, restless, slimy creature, glorying in the 
griefs of women. “ Still,” she said, “ they must come !” 

She recalled to her mind that Shadrach had said be- 
fore starting that if they returned safe and sound, with 
success crowning their enterprise, he would go, as he 
had gone after his shipwreck, and kneel with his sons 
in the church and offer sincere thanks for their deliv- 
erance. She went to church regularly morning and 
afternoon, and sat in the most forward pew, nearest 
the chancel step. Her eyes were mostly fixed on that 

i 


126 


life’s little ironies 


step, where Shadrach had knelt in the bloom of his 
young manhood ; she knew to an inch the spot which 
his knees had pressed twenty winters before — his out- 
line as he had knelt, his hat on the step beside him. 
God was good. Surely her husband must kneel there 
again — a son on each side, as he had said ; George 
just here, Jim just there. By long watching the spot 
as she worshipped, it became as if she saw the three 
returned ones there kneeling; the two slim outlines of 
her boys, the more bulky form between them; their 
hands clasped, their heads shaped against the eastern 
wall. The fancy grew almost to an hallucination; 
she could never turn her worn eyes to the step with- 
out seeing them there. 

Nevertheless, they did not come. Heaven was mer- 
ciful, but it was not yet pleased to relieve her soul. 
This was her purgation for the sin of making them 
the slaves of her ambition. But it became more than 
purgation soon, and her mood approached despair. 
Months had passed since the brig had been due, but 
it had not returned. 

Joanna was always hearing or seeing evidences of 
their arrival. When on the hill behind the port, 
whence a view of the open channel could be obtained, 
she felt sure that a little speck on the horizon, breaking 
the eternally level waste of waters southward, was the 
truck of the Joanna? s main-mast. Or when in-doors, 
a shout or excitement of any kind at the corner of the 
Town Cellar, where the high street joined the quay, 
caused her to spring to her feet and cry, “’Tis they!” 

But it was not. The visionary forms knelt every 
Sunday afternoon on the chancel step, but not the real. 
Her shop had, as it were, eaten itself hollow. In the 
apathy which had resulted from her loneliness and 
grief she had ceased to take in the smallest supplies, 
and thus had sent away her last customer. 


TO PLEASE HIS WIFE 


127 


In this strait Emily Lester tried by every means in 
her power to aid the afflicted woman, but she met with 
constant repulses. 

“I don’t like you ! I can’t bear to see you !” Jo- 
anna would whisper hoarsely, when Emily came to her 
and made advances. 

“But I want to help and soothe you, Joanna,” Em- 
ily would say. 

“You are a lady, with a rich husband and fine sons. 
What can you want with a bereaved crone like me ?” 

“ J oanna, I want this : I want you to come and live 
in my house, and not stay alone in this dismal place 
any longer.” 

“And suppose they come and don’t find me at 
home? You wish to separate me and mine ! No, I’ll 
stay here. I don’t like you, and I can’t thank you, what- 
ever kindness you do me !” 

However, as time went on Joanna could not afford 
to pay the rent of the shop and house without an in- 
come. She was assured that all hope of the return of 
Shadrach and his sons was vain, and she reluctantly 
consented to accept the asylum of the Lesters’ house. 
Here she was allotted a room of her own on the second 
floor, and went and came as she chose, without contact 
with the family. Her hair grayed and whitened, deep 
lines channelled her forehead, and her form grew gaunt 
and stooping. But she still expected the lost ones, and 
when she met Emily on the staircase she would say, 
morosely : “ I know why you’ve got me here ! They’ll 
come, and be disappointed at not finding me at home, 
and perhaps go away again ; and then you’ll be re- 
venged for my taking Shadrach away from ’ee !” 

Emily Lester bore these reproaches from the grief- 
stricken soul. She was sure — all the people of Haven- 
pool were sure — that Shadrach and his sons could not 
return* For years the vessel had been given up as lost* 


128 


life's little ironies 


Nevertheless, when awakened at night by any noise, 
Joanna would rise from bed and glance at the shop 
opposite by the light from the flickering lamp, to make 
sure it was not they. 

It was a damp and dark December night, six years 
after the departure of the brig Joanna. The wind 
was from the sea, and brought up a fishy mist which 
mopped the face like moist flannel. Joanna had 
prayed her usual prayer for the absent ones with 
more fervor and confidence than she had felt for 
months, and had fallen asleep about eleven. It must 
have been between one and two when she suddenly 
started up. She had certainly heard steps in the 
street, and the voices of Shadrach and her sons calling 
at the door of the grocery-shop. She sprang out of 
bed, and, hardly knowing what clothing she dragged 
on herself, hastened down Emily’s large and carpeted 
staircase, put the candle on the hall-table, unfastened 
the bolts and chain, and stepped into the street. The 
mist, blowing up the street from the quay, hindered 
her seeing the shop, although it was so near ; but she 
had crossed to it in a moment. How was it? No- 
body stood there. The wretched woman walked wildly 
up and down with her bare feet — there was not a soul. 
She returned and knocked with all her might at the 
door which had once been her own — they might have 
been admitted for the night, unwilling to disturb her 
till the morning. It was not till several minutes had 
elapsed that the young man who now kept the shop 
looked out of an upper window, and saw the skeleton 
of something human standing below half-dressed. 

“ Has anybody come ?” asked the form. 

“ Oh, Mrs. J olliffe, I didn’t know it was you,” said the 
young man, kindly, for he was aware how her baseless 
expectations moved her. “ No, nobody has come.” 

June, 1891. 


THE MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE 
GERMAN LEGION 

I 

Here stretch the downs, high and breezy and green, 
absolutely unchanged since those eventful days. A 
plough has never disturbed the turf, and the sod that 
was uppermost then is uppermost now. Here stood 
the camp ; here are distinct traces of the banks thrown 
up for the horses of the cavalry, and spots where the 
midden-heaps lay are still to be observed. At night, 
when I walk across the lonely place, it is impossible 
to avoid hearing, amid the scourings of the wind 
over the grass-bents and thistles, the old trumpet and 
bugle calls, the rattle of the halters ; to help seeing 
rows of spectral tents and the impedimenta of the 
soldiery ; from within the canvases come guttural syl- 
lables of foreign tongues, and broken songs of the 
fatherland ; for they were mainly regiments of the 
King’s German Legion that slept round the tent-poles 
hereabout at that time. 

It was nearly ninety years ago. The British uni- 
form of the period, with its immense epaulettes, queer 
cocked -hat, breeches, gaiters, ponderous cartridge- 
box, buckled shoes, and what not, would look strange 
and barbarous now. Ideas have changed ; invention 
9 


130 


life’s little ironies 


has followed invention. Soldiers were monumental 
objects then. A divinity still hedged kings here and 
there ; and war was considered a glorious thing. 

Secluded old manor-houses and hamlets lie in the 
ravines and hollows among these hills, where a stran- 
ger had hardly ever been seen till the king chose to 
take the baths yearly at the sea-side watering-place a 
few miles to the south; as a consequence of which 
battalions descended in a cloud upon the open country 
around. Is it necessary to add that the echoes of many 
characteristic tales, dating from that picturesque time, 
still linger about here in more or less fragmentary 
form, to be caught by the attentive ear? Some of 
them I have repeated ; most of them I have forgotten ; 
one I have never repeated, and assuredly can never 
forget. 

Phyllis told me the story with her own lips. She 
was then an old lady of seventy-five, and her auditor 
a lad of fifteen. She enjoined silence as to her share 
in the incident till she should be “ dead, buried, and 
forgotten.” Her life was prolonged twelve years after 
the day of her narration, and she has now been dead 
nearly twenty. The oblivion which in her modesty 
and humility she courted for herself has only partially 
fallen on her, with the unfortunate result of inflicting 
an injustice upon her memory; since such fragments 
of her story as got abroad at the time, and have been 
kept alive ever since, are precisely those which are 
most unfavorable to her character. 

It all began with the arrival of the York Hussars, 
one of the foreign regiments above alluded to. Before 
that day scarcely a soul had been seen near her father’s 
house for weeks. When a noise like the brushing 
skirt of a visitor was heard on the door-step it proved 
to be a scudding leaf; when a carriage seemed to be 
nearing the door, it was her father grinding his sickle 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 131 


on the stone in the garden for his favorite relaxation 
of trimming the box -tree borders to the plots. A 
sound like luggage thrown down from the coach was 
a gun far away at sea; and what looked like a tall 
man by the gate at dusk was a yew bush cut into a 
quaint and attenuated shape. There is no such soli- 
tude in country places now as there was in those old 
days. 

Yet all the while King George and his court were 
at his favorite sea -side resort, not more than five 
miles off. 

The daughter’s seclusion was great, but beyond the 
seclusion of the girl lay the seclusion of the father. 
If her social condition was twilight, his was darkness. 
Yet he enjoyed his darkness, while her twilight op- 
pressed her. Dr. Grove had been a professional man 
whose taste for lonely meditation over metaphysical 
questions had diminished his practice till it no longer 
paid him to keep it going; after which he had re- 
linquished it and hired at a nominal rent the small, 
dilapidated half - farm half - manor - house of this ob- 
scure inland nook, to make a sufficiency of an income 
which in a town would have been inadequate for their 
maintenance. He stayed in his garden the greater 
part of the day, growing more and more irritable with 
the lapse of time and the increasing perception that 
he had wasted his life in the pursuit of illusions. He 
saw his friends less and less frequently. Phyllis be- 
came so shy that if she met a stranger anywhere in her 
short rambles she felt ashamed at his gaze, walked 
awkwardly, and blushed to her shoulders. 

Yet Phyllis was discovered even here by an ad- 
mirer, and her hand most unexpectedly asked in 
marriage. 

The king, as aforesaid, was at the neighboring town, 
where he had taken up his abode at Gloucester Lodge; 


132 


life’s little ironies 


and his presence in the town naturally brought many 
county people thither. Among these idlers — many 
of whom professed to have connections and interests 
with the court — was one Humphrey Gould, a bachelor; 
a personage neither young nor old ; neither good- 
looking nor positively plain. Too steady -going to 
be “a buck” (as fast and unmarried men were then 
called), he was an approximately fashionable man of a 
mild type. This bachelor of thirty found his way to 
the village on the down; beheld Phyllis; made her 
father’s acquaintance in order to make hers, and by 
some means or other she sufficiently inflamed his heart 
to lead him in that direction almost daily, till he be- 
came engaged to marry her. 

As he was of an old local family, some of whose 
members were held in respect in the county, Phyllis, 
in bringing him to her feet, had accomplished what was 
considered a brilliant move for one in her constrained 
position. How she had done it was not quite known to 
Phyllis herself. In those days unequal marriages were 
regarded rather as a violation of the laws of nature 
than as a mere infringement of convention, the more 
modern view, and hence when Phyllis, of the watering- 
place bourgeoisie, was chosen by such a gentlemanly 
fellow, it was as if she were going to be taken to 
heaven, though perhaps the uninformed would have 
seen no great difference in the respective positions of 
the pair, the said Gould being as poor as a crow. 

This pecuniary condition was his excuse — probably 
a true one — for postponing their union, and as the 
winter drew nearer, and the king departed for the 
season, Mr. Humphrey Gould set out for Bath, prom- 
ising to return to Phyllis in a few weeks. The win- 
ter arrived, the date of his promise passed, yet Gould 
postponed his coming, on the ground that he could 
pot very easily leave his father in the city of their 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 133 

sojourn, the elder having no other relative near him. 
Phyllis, though lonely in the extreme, was content. 
The man who had asked her in marriage was a desira- 
ble husband for her in many ways ; her father highly 
approved of his suit ; but this neglect of her was awk- 
ward, if not painful, for Phyllis. Love him in the 
true sense of the word she assured me she never did, 
but she had a genuine regard for him ; admired a 
certain methodical and dogged way in which he some- 
times took his pleasure ; valued his knowledge of 
what the court was doing, had done, or was about to 
do ; and she was not without a feeling of pride that 
he had chosen her when he might have exercised a 
more ambitious choice. 

But he did not come, and the spring developed. 
His letters were regular though formal ; and it is not 
to be wondered that the uncertainty of her position, 
linked with the fact that there was not much passion 
in her thoughts of Humphrey, bred an indescribable 
dreariness in the heart of Phyllis Grove. The spring 
was soon summer, and the summer brought the king ; 
but still no Humphrey Gould. All this while the en- 
gagement by letter was maintained intact. 

At this point of time a golden radiance flashed in 
upon the lives of people here, and charged all youth- 
ful thought with emotional interest. This radiance 
was the York Hussars. 


II 

The present generation has probably but a very 
dim notion of the celebrated York Hussars of ninety 
years ago. They were one of the regiments of the 
King’s German Legion, and (though they somewhat 


134 


life’s little ironies 


degenerated later on) their brilliant uniforms, their 
splendid horses, and, above all, their foreign air and 
mustaches (rare appendages then), drew crowds of ad- 
mirers of both sexes wherever they went. These with 
other regiments had come to encamp on the downs 
and pastures, because of the presence of the king in 
the neighboring town. 

The spot was high and airy, and the view extensive, 
commanding the Isle of Portland in front, and reach- 
ing to St. Aldhelm’s Head eastward, and almost to the 
Start on the west. 

Phyllis, though not precisely a girl of the village, 
was as interested as any of them in this military in- 
vestment. Her father’s home stood somewhat apart, 
and on the highest point of ground to which the lane 
ascended, so that it was almost level with the top of 
the church-tower in the lower part of the parish. Im- 
mediately from the outside of the garden - wall the 
grass spread away to a great distance, and it was 
crossed by a path which came close to the wall. 
Ever since her childhood it had been Phyllis’s pleas- 
ure to clamber up this fence and sit on the top — a feat 
not so difficult as it may seem, the walls in this district 
being built of rubble, without mortar, so that there 
were plenty of crevices for small toes. 

She was sitting up here one day, listlessly surveying 
the pasture without, when her attention was arrested 
by a solitary figure walking along the path. It was 
one of the renowned German Hussars, and he moved 
onward with his eyes on the ground, and with the 
manner of one who wished to escape company. His 
head would probably have been bent like his eyes but 
for his stiff neck-gear. On nearer view she perceived 
that his face was marked with deep sadness. With- 
out observing her, he advanced by the foot-path till it 
brought him almost immediately under the wall. 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 135 

Phyllis was much surprised to see a fine, tall soldier 
in such a mood as this. Her theory of the military, 
and of the York Hussars in particular (derived entire- 
ly from hearsay, for she had never talked to a soldier 
in her life), was that their hearts were as gay as their 
accoutrements. 

At this moment the Hussar lifted his eyes and no- 
ticed her on her perch, the white muslin neckerchief 
which covered her shoulders and neck where left bare 
by her low gown, and her white raiment in general, 
showing conspicuously in the bright sunlight of this 
summer day. He blushed a little at the suddenness 
of the encounter, and without halting a moment from 
his pace passed on. 

All that day the foreigner’s face haunted Phyllis; 
its aspect was so striking, so handsome, and his eyes 
were so blue and sad and abstracted. It was perhaps 
only natural that on some following day at the same 
hour she should look over that wall again, and wait 
till he had passed a second time. On this occasion 
he was reading a letter, and at the sight of her his man- 
ner was that of one who had half expected or hoped 
to discover her. He almost stopped, smiled, and made 
a courteous salute. The end of the meeting was that 
they exchanged a few words. She asked him what 
he was reading, and he readily informed her that he 
was reperusing letters from his mother in Germany; 
he did not get them often, he said, and was forced to 
read the old ones a great many times. This was all 
that passed at the present interview, but others of the 
same kind followed. 

Phyllis used to say that his English, though not 
good, was quite intelligible to her, so that their ac- 
quaintance was never hindered by difficulties of speech. 
Whenever the subject became too delicate, subtle, or 
tender, for such words of English as were at his com- 


136 


life’s little ironies 


mand, the eyes no doubt helped out the tongue, and — 
though this was later on — the lips helped out the 
eyes. In short, this acquaintance, unguardedly made, 
and rash enough on her part, developed and ripened. 
Like Desdemona, she pitied him, and learned his history, 

His name was Matthaus Tina, and Saarbriick his 
native town, where his mother was still living. His 
age was twenty-two, and he had already risen to the 
grade of corporal, though he had not long been in the 
army. Phyllis used to assert that no such refined or 
well - educated young man could have been found in 
the ranks of the purely English regiments, some of 
these foreign soldiers having rather the graceful man- 
ner and presence of our native officers than of our 
rank and file. 

She by degrees learned from her foreign friend a 
circumstance about himself and his comrades which 
Phyllis would least have expected of the York Hus- 
sars. So far from being as gay as its uniform, the 
regiment was pervaded by a dreadful melancholy, a 
chronic homesickness, which depressed many of the 
men to such an extent that they could hardly attend 
to their drill. The worst sufferers were the younger 
soldiers who had not been over here long. They 
hated England and English life; they took no inter- 
est whatever in King George and his island kingdom, 
and they only wished to be out of it and never to see 
it any more. Their bodies were here, hut their hearts 
and minds were always far away in their dear father- 
land, of which — brave men and stoical as they were 
in many ways — they would speak with tears in their 
eyes. One of the worst of the sufferers from this home- 
woe, as he called it in his own tongue, was Matthaus 
Tina, whose dreamy musing nature felt the gloom of 
exile still more intensely from the fact that he had 
left a lonely mother at home with nobody to cheer her. 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 137 


Though Phyllis, touched by all this, and interested 
in his history, did not disdain her soldier acquaint- 
ance, she declined (according to her own account, at 
least) to permit the young man to overstep the line of 
mere friendship for a long while — as long, indeed, as 
she considered herself likely to become the possession 
of another; though it is probable that she had lost her 
heart to Matthaus before she was herself aware. The 
stone wall of necessity made anything like intimacy 
difficult; and he had never ventured to come, or to ask 
to come, inside the garden, so that all their conversa- 
tion had been overtly conducted across this boundary. 


Ill 

But news reached the village from a friend of 
Phyllis’s father concerning Mr. Humphrey Gould, her 
remarkably cool and patient betrothed. This gentle- 
man had been heard to say in Bath that he considered 
his overtures to Miss Phyllis Grove to have reached 
only the stage of a half -understanding ; and in view 
of his enforced absence on his father’s account, who 
was too great an invalid now to attend to his affairs, 
he thought it best that there should be no definite 
promise as yet on either side. He was not sure, in- 
deed, that he might not cast his eyes elsewhere. 

This account — though only a piece of hearsay, and 
as such entitled to no absolute credit — tallied so well 
with the infrequency of his letters and their lack of 
warmth, that Phyllis did not doubt its truth for one 
moment; and from that hour she felt herself free to 
bestow her heart as she should choose. Not so her 
father; he declared the whole story to be a fabri- 
cation. He had known Mr. Gould’s family from his 


138 


life’s little ironies 


boyhood; and if there was one proverb which ex- 
pressed the matrimonial aspect of that family well, it 
was “Love me little, love me long.” Humphrey was 
an honorable man, who would not think of treating 
his engagement so lightly. “ Do you wait in patience,” 
he said; “all will be right enough in time.” 

From these words Phyllis at first imagined that her 
father was in correspondence with Mr. Gould, and 
her heart sank within her; for in spite of her original 
intentions she had been relieved to hear that her en- 
gagement had come to nothing. But she presently 
learned that her father had heard no more of Hum- 
phrey Gould than she herself had done; while he 
would not write and address her affianced directly on 
the subject, lest it should be deemed an imputation 
on that bachelor’s honor. 

“You want an excuse for encouraging one or other 
of those foreign fellows to flatter you with his un- 
meaning attentions,” her father exclaimed, his mood 
having of late been a very unkind one towards her. 
“ I see more than I say. Don’t you ever set foot out- 
side that garden-fence without my permission. If you 
want to see the camp I’ll take you myself some Sun- 
day afternoon.” 

Phyllis had not the smallest intention of disobeying 
him as to her actions, but she assumed herself to be in- 
dependent with respect to her feelings. She no longer 
checked her fancy for the Hussar, though she was far 
from regarding him as her lover in the serious sense 
in which an Englishman might have been, regarded as 
such. The young foreign soldier was almost an ideal 
being to her, with none of the appurtenances of an 
ordinary house-dweller; one who had descended she 
knew not whence, and would disappear she knew not 
whither; the subject of a fascinating dream — no 


more. 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 139 

They met continually now — mostly at dusk — during 
the brief interval between the going down of the sun 
and the minute at which the last trumpet-call sum- 
moned him to his tent. Perhaps her manner had be- 
come less restrained latterly ; at any rate that of the 
Hussar was so ; he had grown more tender every day, 
and at parting after these hurried interviews, she 
reached down her hand from the top of the wall that 
he might press it. One evening he held it so long that 
she exclaimed “ The wall is white, and somebody in 
the field may see your shape against it !” 

He lingered so long that night that it was with the 
greatest difficulty that he could run across the inter- 
vening stretch of ground and enter the camp in time. 
On the next occasion of his awaiting her she did not 
appear in her usual place at the usual hour. His dis- 
appointment was unspeakably keen; he remained star- 
ing blankly at the wall, like a man in a trance. The 
trumpets and tattoo sounded, and still he did not go. 

She had been delayed purely by an accident. When 
she arrived she was anxious because of the lateness of 
the hour, having heard the sounds denoting the clos- 
ing of the camp as well as he. She implored him to 
leave immediately. 

“No,” he said, gloomily. “I shall not go in yet — 
the moment you come — I have thought of your com- 
ing all day.” 

“ But you may be disgraced at being after time ?” 

“ I don’t mind that. I should have disappeared from 
the world some time ago if it had not been for two 
persons — my beloved, here, and my mother in Saar- 
briick. I hate the army. I care more for a minute 
of your company than for all the promotion in the 
world.” 

Thus he stayed and talked to her, and told her inter- 
esting details of his native place, and incidents of his 


140 


life’s little ironies 


childhood, till she was in a simmer of distress at his 
recklessness in remaining. It was only because she in- 
sisted on bidding him good-night and leaving the wall 
that he returned to his quarters. 

The next time that she saw him he was without the 
stripes that had adorned his sleeve. He had been 
broken to the level of private for his lateness that 
night ; and as Phyllis considered herself to be the 
cause of his disgrace her sorrow was deep. But the 
position was now reversed ; it was his turn to cheer 
her. 

“ Don’t grieve, meine Liebliche !” he said. “ I have 
got a remedy for whatever comes. First, even sup- 
posing I regain my stripes, would your father allow 
you to marry a non-commissioned officer in the York 
Hussars ?” 

She flushed. This practical step had not been in 
her mind in relation to such an unrealistic person as 
he was, and a moment’s reflection was enough for it. 
“ My father would not — certainly would not,” she an- 
swered, unflinchingly. “It cannot be thought of! 
My dear friend, please do forget me ; I fear I am ru- 
ining you and your prospects !” 

“Not at all,” said he. “You are giving this coun- 
try of yours just sufficient interest to me to make 
me care to keep alive in it. If my dear land were 
here also, and my old parent with you, I could be 
happy as I am, and would do my best as a soldier. 
But it is not so. And now listen. This is my plan. 
That you go with me to my own country, and be my 
wife there, and live there with my mother and me. I 
am not a Hanoverian, as you know, though I entered 
the army as such ; my country is by the Saar, and is 
at peace with France, and if I were once in it I should 
be free.” 

“ But how get there?” she asked. Phyllis had been 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 141 

rather amazed than shocked at his proposition. Her 
position in her father’s house was growing irksome 
and painful in the extreme ; his parental affection 
seemed to he quite dried up. She was not a native of 
the village, like all the joyous girls around her ; and 
in some way Matthaus Tina had infected her with his 
own passionate longing for his country and mother 
and home. 

“ But how ?” she repeated, finding that he did not 
answer. “ Will you buy your discharge ?” 

“Ah, no,” he said. “That’s impossible, in these 
times. No ; I came here against my will ; why should 
I not escape? Now is the time, as we shall soon be 
leaving here, and I might see you no more. This is 
my scheme. I will ask you to meet me on the highway 
two miles off, on some calm night next week that may 
be appointed. There will be nothing unbecoming in 
it, or to cause you shame ; you will not fly alone with 
me, for I will bring with me my devoted young friend 
Christoph, an Alsatian, who has lately joined the reg- 
iment, and who has agreed to assist in this enterprise. 
We shall have come from yonder harbor, where we 
shall have examined the boats, and found one suited 
to our purpose. Christoph has already a chart of the 
Channel, and we will then go to the harbor, and at 
midnight cut the boat from her moorings, and row 
away round the point out of sight ; and by the next 
morning we are on the coast of France, near Cherbourg. 
The rest is easy, for I have saved money for the land 
journey, and can get a change of clothes. I will write 
to my mother, who will meet us on the way.” 

He added details in reply to her inquiries, which 
left no doubt in Phyllis’s mind of the feasibility of the 
undertaking. But its magnitude almost appalled her ; 
and it is questionable if she would ever have gone fur- 
ther in the wild adventure if, on entering the house 


142 


life’s little ironies 


that night, her father had not accosted her in the most 
significant terms. 

“How about the York Hussars?” he said. 

“ They are still at the camp ; but they are soon go- 
ing away, I believe.” 

“ It is useless for you to attempt to cloak your ac- 
tions in that way. You have been meeting one of 
those fellows; you have been seen walking with him — 
foreign barbarians, not much better than the French 
themselves ! I have made up my mind — don’t speak 
a word till I have done, please — I have made up my 
mind that you shall stay here no longer while they 
are on the spot. You shall go to your aunt’s.” 

It was useless for her to protest that she had never 
taken a walk with any soldier or man under the sun 
except himself. Her protestations were feeble, too, 
for though he was not literally correct in his asser- 
tion, he was virtually only half in error. 

The house of her father’s sister was a prison to 
Phyllis. She had quite recently undergone experi- 
ence of its gloom ; and when her father went on to 
direct her to pack what would be necessary for her to 
take, her heart died within her. In after -years she 
never attempted to excuse her conduct during this 
week of agitation ; but the result of her self - com- 
muning was that she decided to join in the scheme of 
her lover and his friend, and fly to the country which 
he had colored with such lovely hues in her imagina- 
tion. She always said that the one feature in his 
proposal which overcame her hesitation was the ob- 
vious purity and straightforwardness of his intentions. 
He showed himself to be so virtuous and kind, he 
treated her with a respect to which she had never be- 
fore been accustomed, and she was braced to the ob- 
vious risks of the voyage by her confidence in him. 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 148 


IV 

It was on a soft, dark evening of the following week 
that they engaged in the adventure. Tina was to 
meet her at a point in the highway at which the lane 
to the village branched off. Christoph was to go 
ahead of them to the harbor where the boat lay, row 
it round the Nothe — or Lookout as it was called in 
those days — and pick them up on the other side of 
the promontory, which they were to reach by crossing 
the harbor bridge on foot, and climbing over the 
Lookout hill. 

As soon as her father had ascended to his room she 
left the house, and, bundle in hand, proceeded at a 
trot along the lane. At such an hour not a soul was 
afoot anywhere in the village, and she reached the 
junction of the lane with the highway unobserved. 
Here she took up her position in the obscurity formed 
by the angle of a fence, whence she could discern 
every one who approached along the turnpike - road 
without being herself seen. 

She had not remained thus waiting for her lover 
longer than a minute — though from the tension of her 
nerves the lapse of even that short time was trying — 
when, instead of the expected footsteps, the stage- 
coach could be heard descending the hill. She knew 
that Tina would not show himself till the road was 
clear, and waited impatiently for the coach to pass. 
Nearing the corner where she was it slackened speed, 
and, instead of going by as usual, drew up within 
a few yards of her. A passenger alighted, and she 
heard his voice. It was Humphrey Gould’s. 

He had brought a friend with him, and luggage. 
The luggage was deposited on the grass, and the coach 
went on its route to the royal watering-place. 


144 


life’s little ironies 


“ I wonder where that young man is with the horse 
and trap ?” said her former admirer to his companion. 
“ I hope we sha’n’t have to wait here long. I told him 
ten o’clock precisely.” 

“ Have you got her present safe ?” 

“ Phyllis’s ? Oh yes. It is in this trunk. I hope 
it will please her.” 

“Of course it will. What woman would not be 
pleased with such a handsome peace-offering ?” 

“Well — she deserves it. I’ve treated her rather 
badly. But she has been in my mind these last two 
days much more than I should care to confess to 
everybody. Ah, well; I’ll say no more about that. 
It cannot be that she is so bad as they make out. I 
am quite sure that a girl of her good wit would know 
better than to get entangled with any of those Han- 
overian soldiers. I won’t believe it of her, and there’s 
an end on’t.” 

More words in the same strain were casually dropped 
as the two men waited; words which revealed to her, 
as by a sudden illumination, the enormity of her con- 
duct. The conversation was at length cut off by the 
arrival of the man with the vehicle. The luggage 
was placed in it, and they mounted and were driven 
on in the direction from which she had just come. 

Phyllis was so conscience-stricken that she was at 
first inclined to follow them; but a moment’s reflec- 
tion led her to feel that it would only be bare justice 
to Matthaus to wait till he arrived, and explain can- 
didly that she had changed her mind — difficult as the 
struggle would be when she stood face to face with 
him. She bitterly reproached herself for having be- 
lieved reports which represented Humphrey Gould as 
false to his engagement, when, from what she now 
heard from his own lips, she gathered that he had 
been living full of trust in her. But she knew well 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OP THE GERMAN LEGION 145 

enough who had won her love. Without him her life 
seemed a dreary prospect, yet the more she looked at 
his proposal the more she feared to accept it — so wild 
as it was, so vague, so venturesome. She had promised 
Humphrey Gould, and it was only his assumed faith- 
lessness which had led her to treat that promise as 
naught. His solicitude in bringing her these gifts 
touched her; her promise must be kept, and esteem 
must take the place of love. She would preserve her 
self-respect. She would stay at home, and marry him, 
and suffer. 

Phyllis had thus braced herself to an exceptional 
fortitude when, a few minutes later, the outline of 
Matthaus Tina appeared behind a field-gate, over which 
he lightly leaped as she stepped forward. There was 
no evading it, he pressed her to his breast. 

“It is the first and last time!” she wildly thought, 
as she stood encircled by his arms. 

How Phyllis got through the terrible ordeal of that 
night she could never clearly recollect. She always 
attributed her success in carrying out her resolve to 
her lover’s honor, for as soon as she declared to him 
in feeble words that she had changed her mind, and 
felt that she could not, dared not, fly with him, he 
forbore to urge her, grieved as he was at her decision. 
Unscrupulous pressure on his part, seeing how ro- 
mantically she had become attached to him, would no 
doubt have turned the balance in his favor. But he 
did nothing to tempt her unduly or unfairly. 

On her side, fearing for his safety, she begged him 
to remain. This, he declared, could not be. “ I can- 
not break faith with my friend,” said he. Had he 
stood alone he would have abandoned his plan. But 
Christoph, with the boat and compass and chart, was 
waiting on the shore; the tide would soon turn; his 
mother had been warned of his coming; go he must. 

10 


146 


life’s little ironies 


Many precious minutes were lost while he tarried, 
unable to tear himself away. Phyllis held to her re- 
solve, though it cost her many a bitter pang. At last 
they parted, and he went down the hill. Before his 
footsteps had quite died away, she felt a desire to be- 
hold at least his outline once more, and running noise- 
lessly after him, regained view of his diminishing 
figure. For one moment she was sufficiently excited 
to be on the point of rushing forward and linking 
her fate with his. But she could not. The courage 
which at the critical instant failed Cleopatra of Egypt 
could scarcely be expected of Phyllis Grove. 

A dark shape, similar to his own, joined him in the 
highway. It was Christoph, his friend. She could 
see no more; they had hastened on in the direction of 
the harbor four miles ahead. With a feeling akin to 
despair she turned and slowly pursued her way home- 
ward. 

Tattoo sounded in the camp; but there was no camp 
for her now. It was as dead as the camp of the As- 
syrians after the passage of the Destroying Angel. 

She noiselessly entered the house, seeing nobody, 
and went to bed. Grief, which kept her awake at 
first, ultimately wrapped her in a heavy sleep. The 
next morning her father met her at the foot of the 
stairs. 

“ Mr. Gould is come !” he said, triumphantly. 

Humphrey was staying at the inn, and had already 
called to inquire for her. He had brought her a pres- 
ent of a very handsome looking-glass in a frame of 
repoussk silverwork, which her father held in his hand. 
He had promised to call again in the course of an 
hour, to ask Phyllis to walk with him. 

Pretty mirrors were rarer in country-houses at that 
day than they are now, and the one before her won 
Phyllis’s admiration. She looked into it, saw how 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 147 

heavy her eyes were, and endeavored to brighten 
them. She was in that wretched state of mind which 
leads a woman to move mechanically onward in what 
she conceives to be her allotted path. Mr. Humphrey 
had, in his undemonstrative way, been adhering all 
along to the old understanding; it was for her to do 
the same, and to say not a word of her own lapse. 
She put on her bonnet and tippet, and when he arrived 
at the hour named she was at the door awaiting him. 


y 

Phyllis thanked him for his beautiful gift; but the 
talking was soon entirely on Humphrey’s side as they 
walked along. He told her of the latest movements 
of the world of fashion — a subject which she willingly 
discussed to the exclusion of anything more personal 
— and his measured language helped to still her dis- 
quieted heart and brain. Had not her own sadness been 
what it was she must have observed his embarrass- 
ment. At last he abruptly changed the subject. 

“I am glad you are pleased with my little present,” 
he said. “ The truth is that I brought it to propitiate 
’ee, and to get you to help me out of a mighty diffi- 
culty.” 

It was inconceivable to Phyllis that this indepen- 
dent bachelor, whom she admired in some respects, 
could have a difficulty. 

“ Phyllis, I’ll tell you my secret at once ; for I have 
a monstrous secret to confide before I can ask your 
counsel. The case is, then, that I am married : yes, 
I have privately married a dear young belle ; and if 
you knew her, and I hope you will, you would say 
everything in her praise. But she is not quite the one 


148 


life’s little ironies 


that my father would have chosen for me — you know 
the paternal idea as well as I — and I have kept it se- 
cret. There will be a terrible noise, no doubt ; but I 
think that with your help I may get over it. If you 
would only do me this good turn — when I have told 
my father, I mean — say that you never could have 
married me, you know, or something of that sort ; 
’pon my life it will help to smooth the way mightily. 
I am so anxious to win him round to my point of 
view, and not to cause any estrangement.” 

What Phyllis replied she scarcely knew, or how she 
counselled him as to his unexpected situation. Yet 
the relief that his announcement brought her was per- 
ceptible. To have confided her trouble in return was 
what her aching heart longed to do ; and had Hum- 
phrey been a woman she would instantly have poured 
out her tale. But to him she feared to confess ; and 
there was a real reason for silence, till a sufficient time 
had elapsed to allow her lover and his comrade to get 
out of harm’s way. 

As soon as she reached home again she sought a sol- 
itary place, and spent the time in half regretting that 
she had not gone away, and in dreaming over the 
meetings with Matthaus Tina from their beginning to 
their end. In his own country, among his own coun- 
trywomen, he would possibly soon forget her, even to 
her very name. 

Her listlessness was such that she did not go out of 
the house for several days. There came a morning 
which broke in fog and mist, behind which the dawn 
could be discerned in greenish gray, and the outlines 
of the tents, and the rows of horses at the ropes. The 
smoke from the canteen fires drooped heavily. 

The spot at the bottom of the garden where she had 
been accustomed to climb the wall to meet Matthaus 
was the only inch of English ground in which she took 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 149 

any interest ; and in spite of the disagreeable haze 
prevailing, she walked out there till she reached the 
well-known corner. Every blade of grass was weight- 
ed with little liquid globes, and slugs and snails had 
crept out upon the plots. She could hear the usual 
faint noises from the camp, and in the other direction 
the trot of farmers on the road to the town, for it was 
market-day. She observed that her frequent visits to 
this corner had quite trodden down the grass in the 
angle of the wall, and left marks of garden soil on the 
stepping-stones by which she had mounted to look 
over the top. Seldom having gone there till dusk, she 
had not considered that her traces might be visible by 
day. Perhaps it was these which had revealed her 
trysts to her father. 

While she paused in melancholy regard, she fan- 
cied that the customary sounds from the tents were 
changing their character. Indifferent as Phyllis was 
to camp doings now, she mounted by the steps to the 
old place. What she beheld at first awed and per- 
plexed her ; then she stood rigid, her fingers hooked 
to the wall, her eyes staring out of her head, and her 
face as if hardened to stone. 

On the open green stretching before her all the reg- 
iments in the camp were drawn up in line, in the mid- 
front of which two empty coffins lay on the ground. 
The unwonted sounds which she had noticed came 
from an advancing procession. It consisted of the 
band of the York Hussars playing a dead march; next 
two soldiers of that regiment in a mourning -coach, 
guarded on each side, and accompanied by two priests. 
Behind came a crowd of rustics who had been attract- 
ed by the event. The melancholy procession marched 
along the front of the line, returned to the centre, and 
halted beside the coffins, where the two condemned 
men were blindfolded, and each placed kneeling on 


150 life’s little ironies 

his coffin ; a few minutes’ pause was now given, while 
they prayed. 

A firing party of twenty-four men stood ready with 
levelled carbines. The commanding officer, who had 
his sword drawn, waved it through some cuts of the 
sword-exercise till he reached the downward stroke, 
whereat the firing party discharged their volley. The 
two victims fell, one upon his face across his coffin, 
the other backward. 

As the volley resounded there arose a shriek from 
the wall of Dr. Grove’s garden, and some one fell down 
inside ; but nobody among the spectators without no- 
ticed it at the time. The two executed hussars were 
Matthaus Tina and his friend Christoph. The soldiers 
on guard placed the bodies in the coffins almost in- 
stantly ; but the colonel of the regiment, an English- 
man, rode up and exclaimed, in a stern voice, “ Turn 
them out — as an example to the men !” 

The coffins were lifted endwise, and the dead Ger- 
mans flung out upon their faces on the grass. Then 
all the regiments wheeled in sections and marched 
past the spot in slow time. When the survey was 
over the corpses were again coffined and borne away. 

Meanwhile Dr. Grove, attracted by the noise of the 
volley, had rushed out into his garden, where, he saw 
his wretched daughter lying motionless against the 
wall. She was taken in-doors, but it was long before 
she recovered consciousness, and for weeks they de- 
spaired of her reason. 

It transpired that the luckless deserters from the 
York Hussars had cut the boat from her moorings in 
the adjacent harbor, according to their plan, and, with 
two other comrades, who were smarting under ill- 
treatment from their colonel, had sailed in safety 
across the Channel ; but mistaking their bearings, 
they steered into Jersey, thinking that island the 


MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION 151 

French coast. Here they were perceived to be de- 
serters, and delivered up to the authorities. Matthaus 
and Christoph interceded for the other two at the 
court-martial, saying that it was entirely by the for- 
mer’s representations that these were induced to go. 
Their sentence was accordingly commuted to flogging, 
the death punishment being reserved for their leaders. 

The visitor to the old Georgian watering-place who 
may care to ramble to the neighboring village under 
the hills and examine the register of burials, will there 
find two entries in these words : 

“ Matth : Tina ( Corpl.) in His Majesty's Regmt. of 
York Hussars , and Shot for Desertion , was Buried 
June 30th , 1801, aged 22 years. Born in the town of 
Sarsbruk , Germany. 

“ Christoph Bless , belonging to His Majesty's Regmt . 
of York Hussars , who was Shot for Desertion , was 
Buried June 30th, 1801, aged 22 years. Born at 
Lothaargen, Alsatia." 

Their graves were dug at the back of the little 
church, near the wall. There is no memorial to mark 
the spot, but Phyllis pointed it out to me. While she 
lived she used to keep their mounds neat ; but now 
they are overgrown with nettles, and sunk nearly flat. 
The older villagers, however, who know of the episode 
from their parents, still recollect the place where the 
soldiers lie. Phyllis lies near. 


October, 1889. 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


“ Talking of Exhibitions, World’s Fairs, and what 
not,” said the old gentleman, “ I would not go round 
the corner to see a dozen of them nowadays. The 
only exhibition that ever made, or ever will make, 
any impression upon my imagination was the first of 
the series, the parent of them all, and now a thing of 
old times — the Great Exhibition of 1851, in Hyde 
Park, London. None of the younger generation can 
realize the sense of novelty it produced in us who 
were then in our prime. A noun substantive went so 
far as to become an adjective in honor of the occa- 
sion. It was ‘ exhibition ’ hat, ‘ exhibition ’ razor-strop, 
‘ exhibition ’ watch ; nay, even ‘ exhibition ’ weather, 
‘ exhibition ’ spirits, sweethearts, babies, wives — for the 
time. 

“For South Wessex, the year formed in many ways 
an extraordinary chronological frontier or transit-line, 
at which there occurred what one might call a preci- 
pice in Time. As in a geological ‘ fault,’ we had pre- 
sented to us a sudden bringing of ancient and modern 
into absolute contact, such as probably in no other 
single year since the Conquest was ever witnessed in 
this part of the country.” 

These observations led us onward to talk of the dif- 
ferent personages, gentle and simple, who lived and 
moved within our narrow and peaceful horizon at that 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


153 


time ; and of three people in particular, whose queer 
little history was oddly touched at points by the Ex- 
hibition, more concerned with it than that of anybody 
else who dwelt in those outlying shades of the world, 
Stickleford, Mellstock, and Egdon. First in promi- 
nence among these three came Wat Ollamoor — if that 
were his real name. 

He was a woman’s man — supremely so — and exter- 
nally very little else. To men he was not attractive ; 
perhaps a little repulsive at times. Musician, dandy, 
and company-man in practice; veterinary surgeon in 
theory, he lodged awhile in Mellstock village, coming 
from nobody knew where ; though some said his first 
appearance in this neighborhood had been as fiddle- 
player in a show at Greenhill Fair. 

Many a worthy villager envied him his power over 
unsophisticated maidenhood — a power which seemed 
sometimes to have a touch of the weird and wizardly 
in it. Personally he was not ill-favored, though rather 
un-English, his complexion being a rich olive, his rank 
hair dark and rather clammy — made still clammier by 
secret ointments, which, when he came fresh to a party, 
caused him to smell like “ boys’-love ” (southernwood) 
steeped in lamp-oil. On occasion he wore curls — a 
double row — running almost horizontally around his 
head. But as these were sometimes noticeably absent, 
it was concluded that they were not altogether of 
Nature’s making. By girls whose love for him had 
turned to hatred he had been nicknamed " Mop,” 
from this abundance of hair, which was long enough 
to rest upon his shoulders ; as time passed, the name 
more and more prevailed. 

His fiddling, possibly, had the most to do with the 
fascination he exercised, for, to speak fairly, it could 
claim for itself a most peculiar and personal quality, 
like that in a moving preacher. There were tones in 


154 


life’s little ironies 


it which bred the immediate conviction that indolence 
and averseness to systematic application were all that 
lay between “ Mop ” and the career of a second Paga- 
nini. 

While playing he invariably closed his eyes ; using 
no notes, and, as it were, allowing the violin to wander 
on at will into the most plaintive passages ever heard 
by rustic man. There was a certain lingual character 
in the supplicatory expressions he produced, which 
would wellnigh have drawn an ache from the heart of 
a gate-post. He could make any child in the parish, 
who was at all sensitive to music, burst into tears in a 
few minutes by simply fiddling one of the old dance- 
tunes he almost entirely affected — country jigs, reels, 
and “ Favorite Quick - Steps ” of the last century — 
some mutilated remains of which even now reappear 
as nameless phantoms in new quadrilles and gallops, 
where they are recognized only by the curious, or by 
such old-fashioned and far-between people as have 
been thrown with men like Wat Ollamoor in their 
early life. 

His date was a little later than that of the old Mell- 
stock choir-band, which comprised the Dewys, Mail, 
and the rest — in fact, he did not rise above the hori- 
zon thereabout till those well-known musicians were 
disbanded as ecclesiastical functionaries. In their 
honest love of thoroughness they despised the new 
man’s style. Theophilus Dewy (Reuben the tranter’s 
younger brother) used to say there was no “ plum- 
ness ” in it — no bowing, no solidity — it was all fantas- 
tical. And probably this was true. Anyhow, Mop 
had, very obviously, never bowed a note of church- 
music from his birth ; he never once sat in the gallery 
of Mellstock church, where the others had tuned their 
venerable psalmody so many hundreds of times ; had 
never, in all likelihood, entered a church at all* All 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


155 


were devil’s tunes in his repertory. “He could no 
more play the 4 Wold Hundredth ’ to his true tin^e than 
he could play the brazen serpent,” the tranter would 
say. (The brazen serpent was supposed in Mellstock 
to be a musical instrument particularly hard to blow.) 

Occasionally Mop could produce the aforesaid mov- 
ing effect upon the souls of grown-up persons, especial- 
ly young women of fragile and responsive organiza- 
tion. Such a one was Car’line Aspent. Though she 
was already engaged to be married before she met 
him, Car’line, of them all, was the most influenced by 
Mop Ollamoor’s heart - stealing melodies, to her dis- 
comfort, nay, positive pain and ultimate injury. She 
was a pretty, invocating, weak -mouthed girl, whose 
chief defect as a companion with her sex was a ten- 
dency to peevishness now and then. At this time she 
was not a resident in Mellstock parish, where Mop 
lodged, but lived some miles off at Stickleford, farther 
down the river. 

How and where she first made acquaintance with 
him and his fiddling is not truly known, but the story 
was that it either began or was developed on one 
spring evening, when, in passing through Lower Mell- 
stock, she chanced to pause on the bridge near his 
house to rest herself, and languidly leaned over the 
parapet. Mop was standing on his door-step, as was 
his custom, spinning the insidious thread of semi- and 
demi-semi-quavers from the E string of his fiddle for 
the benefit of passers-by, and laughing as the tears 
rolled down the cheeks of the little children hanging 
around him. Car’line pretended to be engrossed with 
the rippling of the stream under the arches, but in 
reality she was listening, as he knew. Presently the 
aching of the heart seized her simultaneously with a 
wild desire to glide airily in the mazes of an infinite 
dance. To shake off the fascination she resolved to go 


156 


life’s little ironies 


on, although it would be necessary to pass him as he 
played. On stealthily glancing ahead at the per- 
former, she found to her relief that his eyes were 
closed in abandonment to instrumentation, and she 
strode on boldly. But when closer her step grew 
timid, her tread convulsed itself more and more ac- 
cordantly with the time of the melody, till she very 
nearly danced along. Gaining another glance at him 
when immediately opposite, she saw that one of his 
eyes was open, quizzing her as he smiled at her emo- 
tional state. Her gait could not divest itself of its 
compelled capers till she had gone a long way past 
the house ; and Car’line was unable to shake off the 
strange infatuation for hours. 

After that day, whenever there was to be in the 
neighborhood a dance to which she could get an in- 
vitation, and where Mop Ollamoor was to be the mu- 
sician, Car’line contrived to be present, though it 
sometimes involved a walk of several miles ; for he 
did not play so often in Stickleford as elsewhere. 

The next evidences of his influence over her were 
singular enough, and it would require a neurologist 
to fully explain them. She would be sitting quietly, 
any evening after dark, in the house of her father, 
the parish-clerk, which stood in the middle of Stickle- 
ford village street, this being the high-road between 
Lower Mellstock and Moreford, six miles eastward. 
Here, without a moment’s warning, and in the midst 
of a general conversation between her father, sister, 
and the young man before alluded to, who devotedly 
wooed her in ignorance of her infatuation, she would 
start from her seat in the chimney-corner as if she 
had received a galvanic shock, and spring convul- 
sively towards the ceiling ; then she would burst into 
tears, and it was not till some half-hour had passed 
that she grew calm as usual. Her father, knowing 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


157 


her hysterical tendencies, was always excessively anx- 
ious about this trait in his youngest girl, and feared 
the attack to be a species of epileptic fit. Not so her 
sister Julia. Julia had found out what was the cause. 
At the moment before the jumping, only an excep- 
tionally sensitive ear situated in the chimney- nook 
could have caught from down the flue the beat of a 
man’s footstep along the highway without. But it 
was in that foot-fall, for which she had been waiting, 
that the origin of Car’line’s involuntary springing lay. 
The pedestrian was Mop Ollamoor, as the girl well 
knew ; but his business that way was not to visit 
her ; he sought another woman, whom he spoke of as 
his Intended, and who lived at Moreford, two miles 
farther on. On one, and only one, occasion did it 
happen that Car’line could not control her utterance ; 
it was when her sister alone chanced to be present. 
“ Oh — oh — oh — !” she cried. “ He’s going to her , 
and not coming to me /” 

To do the fiddler justice, he had not at first thought 
greatly of, or spoken much to, this girl of impression- 
able mould. But he had soon found out her secret, 
and could not resist a little by-play with her too easily 
hurt heart, as an interlude between his more serious 
performances at Moreford. The two became well ac- 
quainted, though only by stealth, hardly a soul in 
Stickleford except her sister, and her lover Ned Hip- 
croft, being aware of the attachment. Her father 
disapproved of her coldness to Ned ; her sister, too, 
hoped she might get over this nervous passion for a 
man of whom so little was known. The ultimate 
result was that Car’line’s manly and simple wooer 
Edward found his suit becoming practically hopeless. 
He was a respectable mechanic, in a far sounder po- 
sition than Mop the nominal horse-doctor ; but when, 
before leaving her, Ned put his flat and final ques- 


158 


life’s little ironies 


tion, would she marry him, then and there, now or 
never, it was with little expectation of obtaining more 
than the negative she gave him. Though her father 
supported him and her sister supported him, he could 
not play the fiddle so as to draw your soul out of your 
body like a spider’s thread, as Mop did, till you felt 
as limp as withy-wind and yearned for something to 
cling to. Indeed, Hip croft had not the slightest ear 
for music ; could not sing two notes in tune, much 
less play them. 

The Ho he had expected and got from her, in spite 
of a preliminary encouragement, gave Ned a new 
start in life. It had been uttered in such a tone of 
sad entreaty that he resolved to persecute her no 
more ; she should not even be distressed by a sight 
of his form in the distant perspective of the street 
and lane. He left the place, and his natural course 
was to London. 

The railway to South Wessex was in process of 
construction, but it was not as yet opened for traffic ; 
and Hipcroft reached the capital by a six days’ trudge 
on foot, as many a better man had done before him. 
He was one of the last of the artisan class who used 
that now extinct method of travel to the great cen- 
tres of labor, so customary then from time imme- 
morial. 

In London he lived and worked regularly at his 
trade. More fortunate than many, his disinterested 
willingness recommended him from the first. Dur- 
ing the ensuing four years he was never out of em- 
ployment. He neither advanced nor receded in the 
modern sense ; he improved as a workman, but he did 
not shift one jot in social position. About his love 
for Car’line he maintained a rigid silence. No doubt 
he often thought of her ; but being always occupied, 
and having no relations at Stickleford, he held no 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


159 


communication with that part of the country, and 
showed no desire to return. In his quiet lodging in 
Lambeth he moved about after working-hours with 
the facility of a woman, doing his own cooking, at- 
tending to his stocking-heels, and shaping himself by 
degrees to a life-long bachelorhood. For this con- 
duct one is bound to advance the canonical reason 
that time could not efface from his heart the image 
of little Car’line Aspent — and it may be in part true ; 
but there was also the inference that his was a nature 
not greatly dependent upon the ministrations of the 
other sex for its comforts. 

The fourth year of his residence as a mechanic in 
London was the year of the Hyde-Park Exhibition 
already mentioned, and at the construction of this 
huge glass-house, then unexampled in the world’s his- 
torj r , he worked daily. It was an era of great hope 
and activity among the nations and industries. Though 
Hipcroft was, in his small way, a central man in the 
movement, he plodded on with his usual outward 
placidity. Yet for him, too, the year was destined 
to have its surprises, for when the bustle of getting 
the building ready for the opening day was past, the 
ceremonies had been witnessed, and people were flock- 
ing thither from all parts of the globe, he received 
a letter from Car’line. Till that day the silence of 
four years between himself and Stickleford had never 
been broken. 

She informed her old lover, in an uncertain penman- 
ship which suggested a trembling hand, of the trouble 
she had been put to in ascertaining his address, and 
then broached the subject which had prompted her to 
write. Four years ago, she said, with the greatest del- 
icacy of which she was capable, she had been so fool- 
ish as to refuse him. Her wilful wrongheadedness 
had since been a grief to her many times, and of late 


160 


life’s little ironies 


particularly. As for Mr. Ollamoor, lie had been ab- 
sent almost as long as Ned — she did not know where. 
She would gladly marry Ned now if he were to ask 
her again, and be a tender little wife to him till her 
life’s end. 

A tide of warm feeling must have surged through 
Ned Hipcroft’s frame on receipt of this news, if we 
may judge by the issue. Unquestionably he loved 
her still, even if not to the exclusion of every other 
happiness. This from his Car’line, she who had been 
dead to him these many years, alive to him again as of 
old, was in itself a pleasant, gratifying thing. Ned 
had grown so resigned to, or satisfied with, his lonely 
lot, that he probably would not have shown much ju- 
bilation at anything. Still, a certain ardor of preoc- 
cupation, after his first surprise, revealed 'how deeply 
her confession of faith in him had stirred him. Meas- 
ured and methodical in his ways, he did not answer 
the letter that day, nor the next, nor the next. He 
was having “ a good think.” When he did answer it, 
there was a great deal of sound reasoning mixed in 
with the unmistakable tenderness of his replyi; but 
the tenderness itself was sufficient to reveal that he 
was pleased with her straightforward frankness; that 
the anchorage she had once obtained in his heart was 
renewable, if it had not been continuously firm. 

He told her — and as he wrote his lips twitched hu- 
morously over the few gentle words of raillery he 
indited among the rest of his sentences — that it was 
all very well for her to come round at this time of day. 
Why wouldn’t she have him when he wanted her? 
She had no doubt learned that he was not married, but 
suppose his affections had since been fixed on another ? 
She ought to beg his pardon. Still, he was not the man to 
forget her. But, considering how he had been used, and 
what he had suffered, she could not quite expect him to 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


161 


go down to Stickleford and fetch her. But if she 
would come to him, and say she was sorry, as was 
only fair; why, yes, he would marry her, knowing 
what a good little woman she was to the core. He 
added that the request for her to come to him was a 
less one to make than it would have been when he first 
left Stickleford, or even a few months ago; for the 
new railway into South Wessex was now open, and 
there had just begun to be run wonderfully contrived 
special trains, called excursion-trains, on account of 
the Great Exhibition; so that she could come up easily 
alone. 

She said in her reply how good it was of him to 
treat her so generously, after her hot-and-cold treat- 
ment of him; that though she felt frightened at the 
magnitude of the journey, and was never as yet in a 
railway-train, having only seen one pass at a distance, 
she embraced his offer with all her heart; and would, 
indeed, own to him how sorry she was, and beg his 
pardon, and try to be a good wife always, and make 
up for lost time. 

The remaining details of when and where were soon 
settled, Car’line informing him, for her ready identifi- 
cation in the crowd, that she would be wearing “ my 
new sprigged-laylock cotton gown,” and Ned gayly 
responding that, having married her the morning after 
her arrival, he would make a day of it by taking her 
to the Exhibition. One early summer afternoon, ac- 
cordingly, he came from his place of work, and hast- 
ened towards Waterloo Station to meet her. It was 
as wet and chilly as an English June day can occasion- 
ally be, but as he waited on the platform in the drizzle 
he glowed inwardly, and seemed to have something to 
live for again. 

The “ excursion-train ” — an absolutely new depart- 
ure in the history of travel — was still a novelty on 

11 


162 


life’s little ironies 


the Wessex line, and probably everywhere. Crowds 
of people had flocked to all the stations on the way np 
to witness the unwonted sight of so long a train’s pas- 
sage, even where they did not take advantage of the 
opportunity it offered. The seats for the humbler class 
of travellers in these early experiments in steam-loco- 
motion were open trucks, without any protection what- 
ever from the wind and rain ; and damp weather having 
set in with the afternoon, the unfortunate occupants 
of these vehicles were, on the train drawing up at the 
London terminus, found to be in a pitiable condition 
from their long journey; blue -faced, stiff-necked, 
sneezing, rain-beaten, chilled to the marrow, many of 
the men being hatless; in fact, they resembled people 
who had been out all night in an open boat on a rough 
sea, rather than inland excursionists for pleasure. The 
women had in some degree protected themselves by 
turning up the skirts of their gowns over their heads, 
but as by this arrangement they were additionally ex- 
posed about the hips, they were all more or less in a 
sorry plight. 

In the bustle and crush of alighting forms of both 
sexes which followed the entry of the huge concate- 
nation into the station, Ned Hipcroft soon discerned 
the slim little figure his eye was in search of in the 
sprigged lilac, as described. She came up to him with 
a frightened smile — still pretty, though so damp, 
weather-beaten, and shivering from long exposure to 
the wind. 

“Oh, Ned!” she sputtered, “I — I — ” He clasped 
her in his arms and kissed her, whereupon she burst 
into a flood of tears. 

“ You are wet, my poor dear ! I hope you’ll not get 
cold,” he said. And surveying her and her multifari- 
ous surrounding packages, he noticed that by the hand 
she led a toddling child — a little girl of three or so — 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


163 


whose hood was as clammy and tender face as blue as 
those of the other travellers. 

“ Who is this — somebody you know ?” asked Ned, 
curiously. 

“Yes, Ned. She’s mine.” 

“Yours ?” 

“Yes — my own !” 

“Your own child?” 

“Yes !” 

“ Well — as God’s in — ” 

“ Ned, I didn’t name it in my letter, because, you 
see, it would have been so hard to explain. I thought 
that when we met I could tell you how she happened 
to be born, so much better than in writing. I hope 
you’ll excuse it this once, dear Ned, and not scold me, 
now I’ve come so many, many miles !” 

“ This means Mr. Mop Ollamoor, I reckon !” said 
Hipcroft, gazing palely at them from the distance of 
the yard or two to which he had withdrawn with a 
start. 

Car’line gasped. “But he’s been gone away for 
years !” she supplicated. “ And I never had a young 
man before ! And I was so onlucky to be catched 
the first time, though some of the girls down there 
go on like anything !” 

Ned remained in silence, pondering. 

“You’ll forgive me, dear Ned ?” she added, begin- 
ning to sob outright. “ I haven’t taken ’ee in after 
all, because you can pack us back again, if you want 
to ; though ’tis hundreds o’ miles, and so wet, and 
night a-coming on, and I with no money !” 

“ What the devil can I do ?” Hipcroft groaned. 

A more pitiable picture than the pair of helpless 
creatures presented was never seen on a rainy day, as 
they stood on the great, gaunt, puddled platform, a 
whiff of drizzle blowing under the roof upon them 


164 


life’s little ironies 


now and then ; the pretty attire in which they had 
started from Stickleford in the early morning bemud- 
dled and sodden, weariness on their faces, and fear of 
him in their eyes ; for the child began to look as if 
she thought she too had done some wrong, remaining 
in an appalled silence till the tears rolled down her 
chubby cheeks. 

“What’s the matter, my little maid?” said Ned, 
mechanically. 

“ I do want to go home !” she let out, in tones that 
told of a bursting heart. “And my totties be cold, 
an’ I sha’n’t have no bread-an’-butter no more !” 

“ I don’t know what to say to it all !” declared 
Ned, his own eye moist as he turned and walked a 
few steps with his head down ; then regarded them 
again point-blank. From the child escaped troubled 
breaths and silently welling tears. 

“Want some bread-and-butter, do ’ee?” he said, 
with factitious hardness. 

“Ye-e-s !” 

“Well, I dare say I can get ’ee a bit. Naturally, 
you must want some. And you, too, for that matter, 
Car’line.” 

“ I do feel a little hungered. But I can keep it off,” 
she murmured. 

“Folk shouldn’t do that,” he said, gruffly. . . . 
“ There, come along !” He caught up the child as 
he added, “You must bide here to-night, anyhow, I 
s’pose ! What can you do otherwise ? I’ll get ’ee 
some tea and victuals ; and as for this job, I’m sure I 
don’t know what to say. This is the way out.” 

They pursued their way, without speaking, to Ned’s 
lodgings, which were not far off. There he dried 
them and made them comfortable, and prepared tea; 
they thankfully sat down. The ready-made household 
of which he suddenly found himself the head imparted 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


165 


a cosey aspect to his room, and a paternal one to him- 
self. Presently he turned to the child and kissed her 
now blooming cheeks ; and, looking wistfully at Car’- 
line, kissed her also. 

“I don’t see how I can send ’ee back all them 
miles,” he growled, “now you’ve come all the way o’ 
purpose to join me. But you must trust me, Car’line, 
and show you’ve real faith in me. Well, do you feel 
better now, my little woman ?” 

The child nodded, her mouth being otherwise occu- 
pied. 

“I did trust you, Ned, in coming; and I shall al- 
ways !” 

Thus, without any definite agreement to forgive 
her, he tacitly acquiesced in the fate that Heaven had 
sent him ; and on the day of their marriage (which 
was not quite so soon as he had expected it could be, 
on account of the time necessary for banns) he took 
her to the Exhibition when they came back from 
church, as he had promised. While standing near a 
large mirror in one of the courts devoted to furniture, 
Car’line started, for in the glass appeared the reflec- 
tion of a form exactly resembling Mop Ollamoor’s — so 
exactly that it seemed impossible to believe anybody 
but that artist in person to be the original. On pass- 
ing round the objects which hemmed in Ned, her, and 
the child from a direct view, no Mop was to be seen. 
Whether he were really in London or not at that time 
was never known ; and Car’line always stoutly denied 
that her readiness to go and meet Ned in town arose 
from any rumor that Mop had also gone thither ; 
which denial there was no reasonable ground for 
doubting. 

And then the year glided away, and the Exhibition 
folded itself up and became a thing of the past. The 
park trees that had been enclosed for six months were 


166 


life’s little ironies 


again exposed to the winds and storms, and the sod 
grew green anew. Ned found that Car’line resolved 
herself into a very good wife and companion, though 
she had made herself what is called cheap to him ; but 
in that she was like another domestic article, a cheap 
teapot, which often brews better tea than a dear one. 
One autumn Hipcroft found himself with but little 
work to do, and a prospect of less for the winter. 
Both being country born and bred, they fancied they 
would like to live again in their natural atmosphere. 
It was accordingly decided between them that they 
should leave the pent-up London lodging, and that Ned 
should seek out employment near his native place, his 
wife and her daughter staying with Car’line’s father 
during the search for occupation and an abode of their 
own. 

Tinglings of pleasure pervaded Car’line’s spasmodic 
little frame as she journeyed down with Ned to the 
place she had left two or three years before in silence 
and under a cloud. To return to where she had once 
been despised, a smiling London wife with a distinct 
London accent, was a triumph which the world did 
not witness every day. 

The train did not stop at the petty road-side station 
that lay nearest to Stickleford, and the trio went on 
to Casterbridge. Ned thought it a good opportunity 
to make a few preliminary inquiries for employment 
at workshops in the borough where he had been 
known; and feeling cold from her journey, and it being 
dry underfoot and only dusk as yet, with a moon on 
the point of rising, Car’line and her little girl walked 
on towards Stickleford, leaving Ned to follow at a 
quicker pace, and pick her up at a certain half-way 
house, widely known as an inn. 

The woman and child pursued the well-remembered 
way comfortably enough, though they were both be- 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 167 

coming wearied. In the course of three miles they 
had passed Heedless William’s Pond, the familiar 
landmark by Bloom’s End, and were drawing near 
the Quiet Woman Inn, a lone road-side hostel on the 
lower verge of the Egdon Heath, since and for many 
years abolished. In stepping up towards it Car’line 
heard more voices within than had formerly been cus- 
tomary at such an hour, and she learned that an auc- 
tion of fat stock had been held near the spot that af- 
ternoon. The child would be the better for a rest as 
well as herself, she thought, and she entered. 

The guests and customers overflowed into the pas- 
sage, and Car’line had no sooner crossed the threshold 
than a man whom she remembered by sight came for- 
ward with a glass and mug in his hands towards a 
friend leaning against the wall ; but, seeing her, very 
gallantly offered her a drink of the liquor, which was 
gin -and- beer hot, pouring her out a tumblerful and 
saying, in a moment or two : “ Surely, ’tis little Car’- 
line Aspent that was — down at Stickleford?” 

She assented, and, though she did not exactly want 
this beverage, she drank it since it was offered, and 
her entertainer begged her to come in farther and sit 
down. Once within the room she found that all the 
persons present were seated close against the walls, 
and there being a chair vacant she did the same. An 
explanation of their position occurred the next mo- 
ment. In the opposite corner stood Mop, rosining his 
bow and looking just the same as ever. The company 
had cleared the middle of the room for dancing, and 
they were about to dance again. As she wore a veil 
to keep off the wind she did not think he had recog- 
nized her, or could possibly guess the identity of the 
child ; and to her satisfied surprise she found that she 
could confront him quite calmly — mistress of herself 
in the dignity her London life had given her. Before 


168 


life’s little ironies 


she had quite emptied her glass the dance was called, 
the dancers formed in two lines, the music sounded, 
and the figure began. 

Then matters changed for Car’line. A tremor quick- 
ened itself to life in her, and her hand so shook that 
she could hardly set down her glass. It was not the 
dance nor the dancers, but the notes of that old violin 
which thrilled the London wife, these having still all 
the witchery that she had so well known of yore, and 
under which she had used to lose her power of inde- 
pendent will. How it all came back ! There was the 
fiddling figure against the wall ; the large, oily, mop- 
like head of him, and beneath the mop the face with 
closed eyes. 

After the first moments of paralyzed reverie the fa- 
miliar tune in the familiar rendering made her laugh 
and shed tears simultaneously. Then a man at the 
bottom of the dance, whose partner had dropped away, 
stretched out his hand and beckoned to her to take the 
place. She did not want to dance ; she entreated by 
signs to be left where she was, but she was entreating 
of the tune and its player rather than of the dancing 
man. The saltatory tendency which the fiddler and 
his cunning instrument had ever been able to start in 
her was seizing Car’line just as it had done in earlier 
years, possibly assisted by the gin-and-beer hot. Tired 
as she was she grasped her little girl by the hand, and, 
plunging in at the bottom of the figure, whirled about 
with the rest. She found that her companions were 
mostly people of the neighboring hamlets and farms 
— Bloom’s End, Mellstock, Lewgate, and elsewhere ; 
and by degrees she was recognized as she convulsive- 
ly danced on, wishing that Mop would cease and let 
her heart rest from the aching he caused, and her feet 
also. 

After long and many minutes the dance ended, when 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


169 


she was urged to fortify herself with more gin-and- 
beer ; which she did, feeling very weak and overpow- 
ered with hysteric emotion. She refrained from un- 
veiling, to keep Mop in ignorance of her presence, if 
possible. Several of the guests having left, Car’line 
hastily wiped her lips and also turned to go ; but, ac- 
cording to the account of some who remained, at that 
very moment a five-handed reel was proposed, in which 
two or three begged her to join. 

She declined on the plea of being tired and having 
to walk to Stickleford, when Mop began aggressively 
tweedling “ My Fancy Lad,” in L) major, as the air to 
which the reel was to be footed. He must have rec- 
ognized her, though she did not know it, for it was 
the strain of all seductive strains which she was least 
able to resist — the one he had played when she was 
leaning over the bridge at the date of their first ac- 
quaintance. Car’line stepped despairingly into the 
middle of the room with the other four. 

Reels were resorted to hereabouts at this time by 
the more robust spirits for the reduction of superflu- 
ous energy which the ordinary figure-dances were not 
powerful enough to exhaust. As everybody knows, or 
does not know, the five reelers stood in the form of a 
cross, the reel being performed by each line of three 
alternately, the persons who successively came to the 
middle place dancing in both directions. Car’line soon 
found herself in this place, the axis of the whole per- 
formance, and could not get out of it, the tune turn- 
ing into the first part without giving her opportunity. 
And now she began to suspect that Mop did know her, 
and was doing this on purpose, though whenever she 
stole a glance at him his closed eyes betokened obliv- 
iousness to everything outside his own brain. She 
continued to wend her way through the figure of eight 
that was formed by her course, the fiddler introduo- 


170 


life's little ironies 


ing into his notes the wild and agonizing sweetness of 
a living voice in one too highly wrought ; its pathos 
running high and running low in endless variation, 
projecting through her nerves excruciating spasms — a 
sort of blissful torture. The room swam, the tune was 
endless ; and in about a quarter of an hour the only 
other woman in the figure dropped out exhausted, and 
sank panting on a bench. 

The reel instantly resolved itself into a four-hand- 
ed one. Car’line would have given anything to leave 
off ; but she had, or fancied she had, no power, while 
Mop played such tunes ; and thus another ten minutes 
slipped by, a haze of dust now clouding the candles, 
the floor being of stone, sanded. Then another dancer 
fell out — one of the men — and went into the passage, in 
a frantic search for liquor. To turn the figure into a 
three-handed reel was the work of a second, Mop mod- 
ulating at the same time into “ The Fairy Dance,” as 
better suited to the contracted movement, and no less 
one of those foods of love which, as manufactured by 
his bow, had always intoxicated her. 

In a reel for three there was no rest whatever, and 
four or five minutes were enough to make her remain- 
ing two partners, now thoroughly blown, stamp their 
last bar, and, like their predecessors, limp off into the 
next room to get something to drink. Car’line, half- 
stifled inside her veil, was left dancing alone, the apart- 
ment now being empty of everybody save herself, Mop, 
and their little girl. 

She flung up the veil, and cast her eyes upon him, 
as if imploring him to withdraw himself and his acous- 
tic magnetism from the atmosphere. Mop opened one 
of his own orbs, as though for the first time, fixed 
it peeringly upon her, and smiling dreamily, threw 
into his strains the reserve of expression which he 
could not afford to waste on a big and noisy dance. 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


171 


Crowds of little chromatic subtleties, capable of draw- 
ing tears from a statue, proceeded straightway from 
the ancient fiddle, as if it were dying of the emotion 
which had been pent up within it ever since its ban- 
ishment from some Italian city where it first took 
shape and sound. There was that in the look of 
Mop’s one dark eye which said : “ You cannot leave 
off, dear, whether you would or no,” and it bred in 
her a paroxysm of desperation that defied him to tire 
her down. 

She thus continued to dance alone, defiantly as she 
thought, but in truth slavishly and abjectly, subject to 
every wave of the melody, and probed by the gimlet- 
like gaze of her fascinator’s open eye ; keeping up at 
the same time a feeble smile in his face, as a feint to 
signify it was still her own pleasure which led her on. 
A terrified embarrassment as to what she could sajr 
to him if she were to leave off, had its unrecognized 
share in keeping her going. The child, who was be- 
ginning to be distressed by the strange situation, came 
up and said : “ Stop, mother, stop, and let’s go home !” 
as she seized Car’line’s hand. 

Suddenly Car’line sank staggering to the floor ; and 
rolling over on her face, prone she remained. Mop’s 
fiddle thereupon emitted an elfin shriek of finality; 
stepping quickly down from the nine-gallon beer-cask 
which had formed his rostrum, he went to the little 
girl, who disconsolately bent over her mother. 

The guests who had gone into the backroom for 
liquor and change of air, hearing something unusual, 
trooped back hitherward, where they endeavored to 
revive poor, weak Car’line by blowing her with the 
bellows and opening the window. Ned, her husband, 
who had been detained in Casterbridge, as aforesaid, 
came along the road at this juncture, and hearing ex- 
cited voices through the open window, and, to his great 


172 


life’s little ironies 


surprise, the mention of his wife’s name, he entered 
amid the rest upon the scene. Car’line was now in 
convulsions, weeping violently, and for a long time 
nothing could be done with her. While he was send- 
ing for a cart to take her onward to Stickleford, Hip- 
croft anxiously inquired how it had all happened ; 
and then the assembly explained that a fiddler former- 
ly known in the locality had lately revisited his old 
haunts, and had taken upon himself without invitation 
to play that evening at the inn. 

Ned demanded the fiddler’s name, and they said 
Ollamoor. 

“ Ah !” exclaimed Ned, looking round him. “ Where 
is he, and where — where’s my little girl ?” 

Ollamoor had disappeared, and so had the child. 
Hipcroft was in ordinary a quiet and tractable fellow, 
but a determination which was to be feared settled in 
his face now. “ Blast him !” he cried. “I’ll beat his 
skull in for’n, if I swing for it to-morrow !” 

He had rushed to the poker which lay on the hearth, 
and hastened down the passage, the people following. 
Outside the house, on the other side of the highway, a 
mass of dark heath-land rose sullenly upward to its 
not easily accessible interior, a ravined plateau, where- 
on jutted into the sky, at the distance of a couple of 
miles, the fir-woods of Mistover backed by the Yal- 
bury coppices — a place of Dantesque gloom at this 
hour, which would have afforded secure hiding for a 
battery of artillery, much less a man and a child. 

Some other men plunged thitherward with him, and 
more went along the road. They were gone about 
twenty minutes altogether, returning without result 
to the inn. Ned sat down in the settle, and clasped 
his forehead with his hands. 

“Well — what a fool the man is, and hev been all 
these years, if he thinks the child his, as a’ do seem 


THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS 


173 


to !” they whispered. “ And everybody else knowing 
otherwise !” 

“No, I don’t think ’tis mine !” cried Ned, hoarsely, 
as he looked up from his hands. “But she is mine, 
all the same ! Ha’n’t I nussed her? Ha’n’t I fed her 
and teached her ? Ha’n’t I played wi’ her ? Oh, lit- 
tle Carry — gone with that rogue — gone !” 

“You ha’n’t lost your mis’ess, anyhow,” they said 
to console him. “ She’s throwed up the sperrits, and 
she is feeling better, and she’s more to ’ee than a child 
that isn’t yours.” 

“ She isn’t ! She’s not so particular much to me, 
especially now she’s lost the little maid ! But Carry’s 
everything !” 

“ Well, ver’ like you’ll find her to-morrow.” 

“Ah — but shall I? Yet he can't hurt her — surely 
he can’t! Well — how’s Car’line now? I am ready. 
Is the cart here ?” 

She was lifted into the vehicle, and they sadly lum- 
bered on towards Stickleford. Next day she was 
calmer ; but the fits were still upon her ; and her will 
seemed shattered. For the child she appeared to show 
singularly little anxiety, though Ned was nearly dis- 
tracted. It was nevertheless quite expected that the 
impish Mop would restore the lost one after a freak 
of a day or two ; but time went on, and neither he 
nor she could be heard of, and Hipcroft murmured 
that perhaps he was exercising upon her some unholy 
musical charm, as he had done upon Car’line herself. 
Weeks passed, and still they could obtain no clew 
either to the fiddler’s whereabouts or the girl’s ; and 
how he could have induced her to go with him re- 
mained a mystery. 

Then Ned, who had obtained only temporary em- 
ployment in the neighborhood, took a sudden hatred 
towards his native district, and a rumor reaching his 


174 


life’s little ironies 


ears through the police that a somewhat similar man 
and child had been seen at a fair near London, he 
playing a violin, she dancing on stilts, a new interest 
in the capital took possession of Hipcroft with an in- 
tensity which would scarcely allow him time to pack 
before returning thither. He did not, however, find 
the lost one, though he made it the entire business of 
his over-hours to stand about in by-streets in the hope 
of discovering her, and would start up in the night, 
saying, “ That rascal’s torturing her to maintain him!” 
To which his wife would answer, peevishly, “ Don’t ’ee 
raft yourself so, Ned ! You prevent my getting a bit 
o’ rest ! He won’t hurt her !” and fall asleep again. 

That Carry and her father had emigrated to America • 
was the general opinion; Mop, no doubt, finding the 
girl a highly desirable companion when he had trained 
her to keep him by her earnings as a dancer. There, 
for that matter, they may be performing in some 
capacity now, though he must be an old scamp verg- 
ing on threescore-and-ten, and she a woman of four- 
and-forty. 


May, 1893. 


A TRADITION OF 1804 


The widely discussed possibility of an invasion of 
England through a Channel tunnel has more than 
once recalled old Solomon Selby’s story to my mind. 

The occasion on which I numbered myself among 
his audience was one evening when he was sitting 
in the yawning chimney-corner of the inn-kitchen, 
with some others who had gathered there, awaiting 
the cessation of the rain. Withdrawing the stem of 
his pipe from the dental notch in which it habitually 
rested, he leaned back in the recess behind him and 
smiled into the fire. The smile was neither mirth- 
ful nor sad, not precisely humorous nor altogether 
thoughtful. We who knew him recognized it in a 
moment : it was his narrative smile. Breaking off 
our few desultory remarks, we drew up closer, and he 
thus began : 

“ My father, as you mid know, was a shepherd all 
his life, and lived out by the Cove, four miles yon- 
der, where I was born and lived likewise, till I moved 
here shortly afore I wer married. The cottage that 
first knew me stood on the top of the down, near the 
sea ; there was no house within a mile and a half of 
it ; it was built o’ purpose for the farm-shepherd, and 
had no other use. They tell me that it is now pulled 
down, but that you can see where it stood by the 
mounds of earth and a few broken bricks that are 


176 


life’s little ieonies 


still lying about. It was a bleak and dreary place 
in winter-time, but in summer it was well enough, 
though the garden never came to much, because we 
could not get up a good shelter for the vegetables 
and currant bushes, and where there is much wind 
they don’t thrive. 

“ Of all them years of my growing up the ones that 
bide clearest in my mind were eighteen hundred and 
three, four, and five. This was for two reasons : I 
had just then grown to an age when a child’s eyes 
and ears take in and note down everything about him, 
and there was more at that date to bear in mind than 
there ever has been since with me. It was, as I need 
hardly tell ye, the time after the first peace, when 
Bonaparte was scheming his descent upon England. 
He had crossed the great Alp mountains, fought in 
Egypt, drubbed the Turks, the Austrians, and the 
Proossians, and now thought he’d have a slap at us. 
On the other side of the Channel, scarce out of sight 
and hail of a man standing on our English shore, the 
French army of a hundred and sixty thousand men 
and fifteen thousand horses had been brought to- 
gether from all parts, and were drilling every day. 
Bonaparte had been three years a-making his prepa- 
rations ; and to ferry these soldiers and cannon and 
horses across he had contrived a couple of thousand 
flat-bottomed boats. These boats were small things, 
but wonderfully built. A good few of ’em were so 
made as to have a little stable on board each for the 
two horses that were to haul the cannon carried at 
the stern. To get in order all these, and other things 
required, he had assembled there five or six thousand 
fellows that worked at trades — carpenters, black- 
smiths, wheelwrights, saddlers, and what not. Oh, 
’twas a curious time ! 

“ Every morning neighbor Boney would muster his 


A TRADITION OF 1804 177 

multitude of soldiers on the beach, draw ’em up in 
line, practise ’em in the manoeuvre of embarking, 
horses and all, till they could do it without a single 
hitch. My father drove a flock of ewes up into Sus- 
sex that year, and as he went along the drover’s 
track over the high downs thereabout he could see 
this drilling actually going on — the accoutrements of 
the rank and file glittering in the sun like silver. It 
was thought and always said by my uncle Job, ser- 
geant of foot (who used to know all about these mat- 
ters), that Bonaparte meant to cross with oars on a 
calm night. The grand query with us was, Where 
would my gentleman land? Many of the common 
people thought it would be at Dover ; others, who 
knew how unlikely it was that any skilful general 
would make a business of landing just where he was 
expected, said he’d go either east into the river 
Thames, or west’ard to some convenient place, most 
likely one of the little bays inside the Isle of Port- 
land, between the Beal and St. Alban’s Head — and 
for choice the three - quarter - round Cove, screened 
from every mortal eye, that seemed made o’ purpose, 
out by where we lived, and which I’ve dimmed up 
with two tubs of brandy across my shoulders on 
scores o’ dark nights in my younger days. Some had 
heard that a part o’ the French fleet would sail right 
round Scotland, and come up the Channel to a suita- 
ble haven. However, there was much doubt upon 
the matter ; and no wonder, for after-years proved 
that Bonaparte himself could hardly make up his 
mind upon that great and very particular point — 
where to land. His uncertainty came about in this 
wise : that he could get no news as to where and how 
our troops lay in waiting, and that his knowledge of 
possible places where flat-bottomed boats might be 
quietly run ashore, and the men they brought mar- 
12 


178 


life’s little ironies 


shalled in order, was dim to the last degree. Being 
flat-bottomed, they didn’t require a harbor for un- 
shipping their cargo of men, but a good shelving 
beach away from sight, and with a fair open road 
towards London. How the question posed that great 
Corsican tyrant (as we used to call him), what pains 
he took to settle it, and, above all, what a risk he ran 
on one particular night in trying to do so, were known 
only to one man here and there ; and certainly to no 
maker of newspapers or printer of books, or my ac- 
count o’t would not have had so many heads shaken 
over it as it has by gentry who only believe what 
they see in printed lines. 

“ The flocks my father had charge of fed all about 
the downs near our house, overlooking the sea and 
shore each way for miles. In winter and early spring 
father was Up a deal at nights, watching and tending 
the lambing. Often he’d go to bed early, and turn 
out at twelve or one ; and, on the other hand, he’d 
sometimes stay up till twelve or one, and then turn 
in to bed. As soon as I was old enough I used to 
help him, mostly in the way of keeping an eye upon 
the ewes while he was gone home to rest. This is 
what I was doing in a particular month in either the 
year four or five — I can’t certainly fix which, but it 
was long before I was took away from the sheep- 
keeping to be bound prentice to a trade. Every 
night at that time I was at the fold, about half a 
mile, or it may be a little more, from our cottage, 
and no living thing at all with me but the ewes and 
young lambs. Afeard ? No ; I was never afeard of 
being alone at these times ; for I had been reared in 
such an out-step place that the lack o’ human beings 
at night made me less fearful than the sight of ’em. 
Directly I saw a man’s shape after dark in a lonely 
place I was frightened out of my senses. 


A TRADITION OF 1804 


179 


“ One day in that month we were surprised by a 
visit from my uncle Job, the sergeant in the Sixty- 
first foot, then in camp on the downs above King 
George’s watering - place, several miles to the west 
yonder. Uncle Job dropped in about dusk, and went 
up with my father to the fold for an hour or two. 
Then he came home, had a drop to drink from the tub 
of sperrits that the smugglers kept us in for housing 
their liquor when they’d made a run, and for burning 
’em off when there was danger. After that he stretched 
himself out on the settle to sleep. I went to bed : 
at one o’clock father came home, and waking me to go 
and take his place, according to custom, went to bed 
himself. On my way out of the house I passed Uncle 
Job on the settle. He opened his eyes, and upon my 
telling him where I was going he said it was a shame 
that such a youngster as I should go up there all alone; 
and when he had fastened up his stock and waist-belt 
he set off along with me, taking a drop from the sper- 
rit-tub in a little flat bottle that stood in the corner 
cupboard. 

“ By-and-by we drew up to the fold, saw that all was 
right, and then, to keep ourselves warm, curled up in 
a heap of straw that lay inside the thatched hurdles 
we had set up to break the stroke of the wind when 
there was any. To-night, however, there was none. It 
was one of those very still nights when, if you stand 
on the high hills anywhere within two or three miles 
of the sea, you can hear the rise and fall of the tide 
along the shore, coming and going every few moments 
like a sort of great snore of the sleeping world. Over 
the lower ground there was a bit of a mist, but on 
the hill where we lay the air was clear, and the moon, 
then in her last quarter, flung a fairly good light on 
the grass and scattered straw. 

“ While we lay there Uncle Job amused me by tell- 


180 


life’s little ironies 


ing me strange stories of the wars he had served in 
and the wounds he had got. He had already fought 
the French in the Low Countries, and hoped to fight 
’em again. His stories lasted so long that at last I was 
hardly sure that I was not a soldier myself, and had 
seen such service as he told of. The wonders of his 
tales quite bewildered my mind, till I fell asleep and 
dreamed of battle, smoke, and flying soldiers, all of 
a kind with the doings he had been bringing up to 
me. 

“How long my nap lasted I am not prepared to 
say. But some faint sounds over and above the rustle 
of the ewes in the straw, the bleat of the lambs, and 
the tinkle of the sheep-bell brought me to my waking 
senses. Uncle Job was still beside me ; but he too 
had fallen asleep. I looked out from the straw, and 
saw what it was that had aroused me. Two men, in 
boat cloaks, cocked hats, and swords, stood by the 
hurdles about twenty yards off. 

“ I turned my ear thitherward to catch what they 
were saying, but though I heard every word o’t, not 
one did I understand. They spoke in a tongue that 
was not ours — in French, as I afterwards found. 
But if I could not gain the meaning of a word, I was 
shrewd boy enough to find out a deal of the talkers’ 
business. By the light o’ the moon I could see that 
one of ’em carried a roll of paper in his hand, while 
every moment he spoke quick to his comrade, and 
pointed right and left with the other hand to spots 
along the shore. There was no doubt that he was ex- 
plaining to the second gentleman the shapes and feat- 
ures of the coast. What happened soon after made 
this still clearer to me. 

“All this time I had not waked Uncle Job, but now 
I began to be afeard that they might light upon us, 
because uncle breathed so heavily through ’s nose. I 


A TRADITION OF 1804 


181 


put my mouth to his ear and whispered, ‘Uncle 
Job.’ 

" 6 What is it, my boy?’ he said, just as if he hadn’t 
been asleep at all. 

“ ‘ Hush !’ says I. ‘ Two French generals — ’ 

“ ‘ French ?’ says he. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ says I. ‘ Come to see where to land their 
army !’ 

“ I pointed ’em out ; but I could say no more, for 
the pair were coming at that moment much nearer to 
where we lay. As soon as they got as near as eight 
or ten yards, the officer with a roll in his hand stooped 
down to a slanting hurdle, unfastened his roll upon it, 
and spread it out. Then suddenly he sprung a dark- 
lantern open on the paper, and showed it to be a 
map. 

“ ‘ What be they looking at ?’ I whispered to Uncle 
Job. 

“ ‘ A chart of the Channel,’ says the sergeant (know- 
ing about such things). 

“ The other French officer now stooped likewise, 
and over the map they had a long consultation, as 
they pointed here and there on the paper, and then 
hither and thither at places along the shore beneath 
us. I noticed that the manner of one officer was very 
respectful towards the other, who seemed much his 
superior, the second in rank calling him by a sort 
of title that I did not know the sense of. The head 
one, on the other hand, was quite familiar with his 
friend, and more than once clapped him on the shoul- 
der. 

“Uncle Job had watched as well as I, but though 
the map had been in the lantern-light, their faces had 
always been in shade. But when they rose from 
stooping over the chart, the light flashed upward, and 
fell smart upon one of ’em’s features. No sooner had 


182 


life’s little ieonies 


this happened than Uncle Job gasped, and sank down 
as if he’d been in a fit. 

“ ‘ What is it — what is it, Uncle J ob ?’ said I. 

“ ‘ O good God !’ says he, under the straw. 

“ ‘ What ?’ says I. 

“ ‘ Boney !’ he groaned out. 

“ 6 Who ?’ says I. 

“ 4 Bonaparty,’ he said. ‘ The Corsican ogre. O 
that I had got but my new-flinted firelock, that there 
man should die! But I haven’t got my new-flinted 
firelock, and that there man must live. So lie low, as 
you value your life !’ 

“ I did lie low, as you mid suppose. But I couldn’t 
help peeping. And then I too, lad as I was, knew that 
it was the face of Bonaparte. Not know Boney? I 
should think I did know Boney. I should have known 
him by half the light o’ that lantern. If I had seen a 
picture of his features once, I had seen it a hundred 
times. There was his bullet head, his short neck, his 
round yaller cheeks and chin, his gloomy face, and his 
great, glowing eyes. He took off his hat to blow him- 
self a bit, and there was the forelock in the middle 
of his forehead, as in all the draughts of him. In 
moving, his cloak fell a little open, and I could see 
for a moment his white-fronted jacket and one of his 
epaulets; 

“ But none of this lasted long. In a minute he and 
his general had rolled up the map, shut the lantern, 
and turned to go down towards the shore. 

“Then Uncle Job came to himself a bit. ‘ Slipped 
across in the night - time to see how to put his men 
ashore,’ he said. ‘The like o’ that man’s coolness 
eyes will never again see ! Nephew, I must act in 
this, and immediate, or England’s lost !’ 

“When they were over the brow, we crope out, 
and went some little way to look after them- Half- 


A TRADITION OP 1804 


183 


way down they were joined by two others, and six or 
seven minutes brought them to the shore. Then, 
from behind a rock, a boat came out into the weak 
moonlight of the Cove, and they jumped in ; it put 
off instantly, and vanished in a few minutes between 
the two rocks that stand at the mouth of the Cove as 
we all know. We dimmed back to where we had 
been before, and I could see, a little way out, a larger 
vessel, though still not very large. The little boat 
drew up alongside, was made fast at the stern as I 
suppose, for the largest sailed away, and we saw no 
more. 

“My uncle Job told his officers as soon as he got 
back to camp ; but what they thought of it I never 
heard — neither did he. Boney’s army never came, and 
a good job for me ; for the Cove below my father’s 
house was where he meant to land, as this secret visit 
showed. We coast-folk should have been cut down 
one and all, and I should not have sat here to tell this 
tale.” 

We who listened to old Selby that night have been 
familiar with his simple gravestone for these ten years 
past. Thanks to the incredulity of the age, his tale 
has been seldom repeated. But if anything short of 
the direct testimony of his own eyes could persuade 
an auditor that Bonaparte had examined these shores 
for himself with a view to a practicable landing-place, 
it would have been Solomon Selby’s manner of nar- 
rating the adventure which befell him on the down. 

Christmas, 1882. 























* 



























A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS 











A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS 


It is a Saturday afternoon of blue-and-yellow au- 
tumn-time, and the scene is the high street of a well- 
known market-town. A large carrier’s van stands in 
the quadrangular fore-court of the White Hart Inn, 
upon the sides of its spacious tilt being painted, in 
weather - beaten letters : “ Burthen, Carrier to Long- 
puddle.” These vans, so numerous hereabout, are a 
respectable, if somewhat lumbering, class of convey- 
ance, much resorted to by decent travellers not over- 
stocked with money, the better among them roughly 
corresponding to the old French diligences. 

The present one is timed to leave the town at four 
in the afternoon precisely, and it is now half -past 
three by the clock in the turret at the top of the 
street. In a few seconds errand-boys from the shops 
begin to arrive with packages which they fling into 
the vehicle, and turn away whistling, and care for 
the packages no more. At twenty minutes to four 
an elderly woman places her basket upon the shafts, 
slowly mounts, takes up a seat inside, and folds her 
hands and her lips. She has secured her corner for 
the journey, though there is as yet no sign of a horse 
being put in, nor of a carrier. At the three-quarters, 
two other women arrive, in whom the first recognizes 
the postmistress of Upper Longpuddle and the regis- 
trar’s wife, they recognizing her as the aged groceress 


188 


life’s little ironies 


of the same village. At five minutes to the hour 
there approach Mr. Profitt, the school-master, in a 
soft felt hat, and Christopher Twink, the master- 
thatcher ; and as the hour strikes there rapidly drop 
in the parish-clerk and his wife, the seedsman and his 
aged father, the registrar ; also Mr. Day, the world- 
ignored local landscape-painter, an elderly man who 
resides in his native place, and has never sold a pict- 
ure outside it, though his pretensions to art have been 
nobly supported by his fellow-villagers, whose confi- 
dence in his genius has been as remarkable as the 
outer neglect of it, leading them to buy his paintings 
so extensively (at the price of a few shillings each, it 
is true) that every dwelling in the parish exhibits 
three or four of those admired productions on its 
walls. 

Burthen, the carrier, is by this time seen bustling 
round the vehicle ; the horses are put in, the propri- 
etor arranges the reins and springs up into his seat as 
if he were used to it — which he is. 

“ Is everybody here ?” he asks, preparatorily, over 
his shoulder to the passengers within. 

As those who were not there did not reply in the 
negative the muster was assumed to be complete, and 
after a few hitches and hinderances the van with its 
human freight was got under way. It jogged on at 
an easy pace till it reached the bridge which formed 
the last outpost of the town. The carrier pulled up 
suddenly 

“Bless my soul !” he said, “I’ve forgot the curate !” 

All who could do so gazed from the little back win- 
dow of the van, but the curate was not in sight. 

“ Now I wonder where that there man is ?” contin- 
ued the carrier. 

“ Poor man, he ought to have a living at his time 
of life.” 


A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS 


189 


“And he ought to be punctual,” said the carrier. 
“‘Four o’clock sharp is my time for starting,’ I said 
to ’en. And he said, ‘I’ll he there.’ Now he’s not 
here ; and as a serious old Church minister he ought 
to be as good as his word. Perhaps Mr. Flaxton 
knows, being in the same line of life ?” He turned to 
the parish-clerk. 

“I was talking an immense deal with him, that’s 
true, half an hour ago,” replied that ecclesiastic, as 
one of whom it was no erroneous supposition that he 
should be on intimate terms with another of the cloth. 
“ But he didn’t say he would be late.” 

The discussion was cut off by the appearance round 
the corner of the van of rays from the curate’s spec- 
tacles, followed hastily by his face and a few white 
whiskers, and the swinging tails of his long gaunt 
coat. Nobody reproached him, seeing how he was 
reproaching himself ; and he entered breathlessly and 
took his seat. 

“Now be we all here?” said the carrier again. 
They started a second time, and moved on till they 
were about three hundred yards out of the town, and 
had nearly reached the second bridge, behind which, 
as every native remembers, the road takes a turn and 
travellers by this highway disappear finally from the 
view of gazing burghers. 

“Well, as I’m alive !” cried the postmistress from 
the interior of the conveyance, peering through the 
little square back window along the road townward. 

“ What ?” said the carrier. 

“ A man hailing us !” 

Another sudden stoppage. “ Somebody else ?” the 
carrier asked. 

“Aye, sure !” All waited silently, while those who 
could gaze out did so. 

“Now, who can that be?” Burthen continued. “I 


190 


life’s little ironies 


just put it to ye, neighbors, can any man keep time 
with such hinderances ? Bain’t we full a’ready ? Who 
in the world can the man be?” 

“ He’s a sort of gentleman,” said the school-master, 
his position commanding the road more comfortably 
than that of his comrades. 

The stranger, who had been holding up his umbrella 
to attract their notice, was walking forward leisurely 
enough, now that he found, by their stopping, that 
it had been secured. His clothes were decidedly not 
of a local cut, though it was difficult to point out 
any particular mark of difference. In his left hand he 
carried a small leather travelling-bag. As soon as he 
had overtaken the van he glanced at the inscription 
on its side, as if to assure himself that he had hailed 
the right conveyance, and asked if they had room. 

The carrier replied that though they were pretty 
well laden he supposed they could carry one more, 
whereupon the stranger mounted, and took the seat 
cleared for him within. And then the horses made 
another move, this time for good, and swung along 
with their burden of fourteen souls all told. 

“ You bain’t one of these parts, sir ?” said the car- 
rier. “ I could tell that as far as I could see ’ee.” 

“ Yes, I am one of these parts,” said the stranger. 

“Oh? H’m.” 

The silence which followed seemed to imply a 
doubt of the truth of the new-comer’s assertion. “ I 
was speaking of Upper Longpuddle more particular,” 
continued the carrier, hardily, “ and I think I know 
most faces of that valley.” 

“I was born at Longpuddle, and nursed at Long- 
puddle, and my father and grandfather before me,” 
said the passenger, quietly. 

“ Why, to be sure,” said the aged groceress in the 
background, “it isn’t John Lackland’s son — never — 


A PEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS 


191 


it can’t be — he who went to foreign parts five-and- 
thirty years ago with his wife and family? Yet — 
what do I hear ? — that’s his father’s voice !” 

“That’s the man,” replied the stranger. “John 
Lackland was my father, and I am John Lackland’s 
son. Five-and-thirty years ago, when I was a boy of 
eleven, my parents emigrated across the seas, taking 
me and my sister with them. Kytes’s boy Tony was 
the one who drove us and our belongings to Caster- 
bridge on the morning we left; and his was the last 
Longpuddle face I saw. We sailed the same week 
across the ocean, and there we’ve been ever since, and 
there I’ve left those I went with — all three.” 

“ Alive or dead ?” 

“Dead,” he replied in a low voice. “And I have 
come back to the old place, having nourished a thought 
— not a definite intention, but just a thought — that I 
should like to return here in a year or two, to spend 
the remainder of my days.” 

“ Married man, Mr. Lackland ?” 

“No.” 

“And have the world used ’ee well, sir — or rather 
John, knowing ’ee as a child ? In these rich new coun- 
tries that we hear of so much, you’ve got rich with the 
rest ?” 

“I am not very rich,” Mr. Lackland said. “Even 
in new countries, you know, there are failures. The 
race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the 
strong; and even if it sometimes is, you may be nei- 
ther swift nor strong. However, that’s enough about 
me. Now, having answered your inquiries, you must 
answer mine; for, being in London, I have come down 
here entirely to discover what Longpuddle is looking 
like, and who are living there. That was why I pre- 
ferred a seat in your van to hiring a carriage for driv- 
ing across.” 


192 


life’s little ironies 


“ Well, as for Longpuddle, we rub on there much as 
usual. Old figures have dropped out o’ their frames, 
so to speak it, and new ones have been put in their 
places. You mentioned Tony Kytes as having been 
the one to drive your family and your goods to Cas- 
terbridge in his father’s wagon when you left. Tony 
is, I believe, living still, but not at Longpuddle. He 
went away and settled at Lewgate, near Mellstock, 
after his marriage. Ah, Tony was a sort o’ man !” 

“ His character had hardly come out when I knew 
him.” 

“ No. But ’twas well enough, as far as that goes — 
except as to women. I shall never forget his courting 
— never!” 

The returned villager waited silently, and the car- 
rier went on: 


TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER 


“ I shall never forget Tony’s face. ’Twas a little, 
round, firm, tight face, with a seam here and there left 
by the small-pox, but not enough to hurt his looks in a 
woman’s eye, though he’d had it badish when he was a 
boy. So very serious looking and unsmiling ’a was, 
that young man, that it really seemed as if he couldn’t 
laugh at all without great pain to his conscience. He 
looked very hard at a small speck in your eye when 
talking to ’ee. And there was no more sign of a whis- 
ker or beard on Tony Kytes’s face than on the palm 
of my hand. He used to sing ‘ The Tailor’s Breeches’ 
with a rfeligious manner, as if it were a hymn : 

O the petticoats went off, and the breeches they went on;’ 

and all the rest of the scandalous stuff. He was quite 
the women’s favorite, and in return for their likings he 
loved ’em in shoals. 

“ But in course of time Tony got fixed down to one 
in particular, Milly Richards — a nice, light, small, ten- 
der little thing; and it was soon said that they were 
engaged to be married. One Saturday he had been 
to market to do business for his father, and was driv- 
ing home the wagon in the afternoon. When he 
reached the foot of the very hill we shall be going 
over in ten minutes, who should he see waiting for 
him at the top but Unity Sallet, a handsome girl, one 
of the young women he’d been very tender towards 
before he’d got engaged to Milly. 

13 


194 


life’s little ironies 


“As soon as Tony came up to her she said, ‘My 
dear Tony, will you give me a lift home ?’ 

“‘That I will, darling,’ said Tony. ‘You don’t 
suppose I could refuse ’ee ?’ 

“She smiled a smile, and up she hopped, and on 
drove Tony. 

“ ‘ Tony,’ she says, in a sort of tender chide, ‘ why 
did ye desert me for that other one ? In what is she 
better than I ? I should have made ’ee a finer wife, 
and a more loving one, too. ’Tisn’t girls that are so 
easily won at first that are the best. Think how long 
we’ve known each other — ever since we were children 
almost — now haven’t we, Tony ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, that we have,’ says Tony, a-struck with the 
truth o’t. 

“‘And you’ve never seen anything in me to com- 
plain of, have ye, Tony ? Now tell the truth to me.’ 

“ ‘ I never have, upon my life,’ says Tony. 

“ ‘ And — can you say I’m not pretty, Tony ? Now 
look at me !’ 

“He let his eyes light upon her for a long while. 
‘ I really can’t,’ says he. ‘ In fact, I never knowed 
you was so pretty before !’ 

“ ‘ Prettier than she ?’ 

“ What Tony would have said to that nobody knows, 
for before he could speak, what should he see ahead, 
over the hedge past the turning, but a feather he knew 
well — the feather in Milly’s hat — she to whom he had 
been thinking of putting the question as to giving out 
the banns that very week. 

“ ‘ Unity,’ says he, as mild as he could, ‘ here’s Milly 
coming. Now I shall catch it mightily if she sees ’ee 
riding here with me; and if you get down she’ll be 
turning the corner in a moment, and, seeing ’ee in the 
road, she’ll know we’ve been coming on together. 
Now, dearest Unity, will ye, to avoid all unpleasant- 


TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER 195 

ness, which I know ye can’t bear any more than I, will 
ye lie down in the back part of the wagon, and let me 
cover you over with the tarpaulin till Milly has passed ? 
It will all be done in a minute. Do! — and I’ll think 
over what we’ve said; and perhaps I shall put a loving 
question to you after all, instead of to Milly. ’Tisn’t 
true that it is all settled between her and me.’ 

“Well, Unity Sallet agreed, and lay down at the 
back end of the wagon, and Tony covered her over, 
so that the wagon seemed to be empty but for the 
loose tarpaulin ; and then he drove on to meet Milly. 

44 4 M)^ dear Tony !’ cries Milly, looking up with a 
little pout at him as he came near. 4 How long you’ve 
been coming home ! Just as if I didn’t live at Upper 
Longpuddle at all ! And I’ve come to meet you as 
you asked me to do, and to ride back with you, and 
talk over our future home — since you asked me, and 
I promised. But I shouldn’t have come else, Mr. 
Tony !’ 

44 4 Ay, my dear, I did ask ye — to be sure I did, now 
I think of it — but I had quite forgot it. To ride back 
with me, did you say, dear Milly ?’ 

44 4 Well, of course ! What can I do else? Surely 
you don’t want me to walk, now I’ve come all this 
way?’ 

44 4 Oh no, no ! I was thinking you might be go- 
ing on to town to meet your mother. I saw her 
there — and she looked as if she might be expect- 
ing ’ee.’ 

44 4 Oh no ; she’s just home. She came across the 
fields, and so got back before you.’ 

44 4 Ah ! I didn’t know that,’ says Tony. And there 
was no help for it but to take her up beside him. 

44 They talked on very pleasantly, and looked at the 
trees and beasts and birds and insects, and at the 
ploughmen at work in the fields, till presently who 


196 


life’s little ironies 


should they see looking out of the upper window of a 
house that stood beside the road they were following 
hut Hannah Jolliver, another young beauty of the 
place at that time, and the very first woman that Tony 
had fallen in love with — before Milly and before 
Unity, in fact — the one that he had almost arranged 
to marry instead of Milly. She was a much more 
dashing girl than Milly Richards, though he’d not 
thought much of her of late. The house Hannah was 
looking from was her aunt’s. 

“ ‘ My dear Milly — my coming wife, as I may call 
’ee,’ says Tony in his modest way, and not so loud 
that Unity could overhear ‘I see a young woman look- 
ing out of window who I think may accost me. The 
fact is, Milly, she had a notion that I was wishing to 
marry her, and since she’s discovered I’ve promised 
another, and prettier than she, I’m rather afeared 
of her temper if she sees us together. Now, Milly, 
would you do me a favor — my coming wife, as I may 
say?’ 

“ * Certainly, dearest Tony,’ says she. 

“‘Then would ye creep under the tarpaulin just 
here in the front of the wagon, and hide there out of 
sight till we’ve passed the house? She hasn’t seen us 
yet. You see, we ought to live in peace and good-will 
since ’tis almost Christmas, and ’twill prevent angry 
passions rising, which we always should do.’ 

“ ‘ I don’t mind, to oblige you, Tony,’ Milly said ; 
and though she didn’t care much about doing it, she 
crept under, and crouched down just behind the seat, 
Unity being snug at the other end. So they drove on 
till they got near the road-side cottage. Hannah had 
soon seen him coming, and waited at the window, 
looking down upon him. She tossed her head a little 
disdainful and smiled oif-hand. 

*‘ ‘Well, aren’t you going to be civil enough to ask 


TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER 197 

me to ride home with you?’ she says, seeing that he 
was for driving past with a nod and a smile. 

“ ‘ Ah, to be sure ! What was I thinking of ?’ said 
Tony, in a flutter. ‘ But you seem as if you was stay- 
ing at your aunt’s ?’ 

“‘No, I am not,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see I have 
my bonnet and jacket on ? I have only called to see 
her on my way home. How can you be so stupid, 
Tony?’ 

“ ‘ In that case — ah — of course you must come along 
wi’ me,’ says Tony, feeling a dim sort of sweat rising 
up inside his clothes. And he reined in the horse, and 
waited till she’d come down-stairs, and then helped 
her up beside him. He drove on again, his face as 
long as a face that was a round one by nature well 
could be. 

“ Hannah looked round sideways into his eyes. 
‘ This is nice, isn’t it, Tony ?’ she says. ‘ I like riding 
with you.’ 

“Tony looked back into her eyes. ‘And I with 
you,’ he said, after a while. In short, having consid- 
ered her, he warmed up, and the more he looked at 
her the more he liked her, till he couldn’t for the life 
of him think why he had ever said a word about mar- 
riage to Milly or Unity while Hannah Jolliver was in 
question. So they sat a little closer and closer, their 
feet upon the foot-board and their shoulders touching, 
and Tony thought over and over again how handsome 
Hannah was. He spoke tenderer and tenderer, and 
called her ‘ dear Hannah ’ in a whisper at last. 

“ ‘You’ve settled it with Milly by this time, I sup- 
pose,’ said she. 

“ ‘ N — no, not exactly.’ 

“ ‘ What ? How low you talk, Tony.’ 

‘“Yes — I’ve a kind of hoarseness. I said, not ex- 


198 


life’s little ironies 


“ ‘ I suppose you mean to ?’ 

“ ‘Well, as to that — ’ His eyes rested on her face, 
and hers on his. He wondered how he could have 
been such a fool as not to follow up Hannah. ‘ My 
sweet Hannah !’ he bursts out, taking her hand, not 
being really able to help it, and forgetting Milly and 
Unity and all the world besides. ‘Settled it? I 
don’t think I have !’ 

“ ‘ Hark !’ says Hannah. 

“ ‘ What ?’ says Tony, letting go her hand. 

“ ‘ Surely I heard a sort of little screaming squeak 
under that tar -cloth? Why, you’ve been carrying 
corn, and there’s mice in this wagon, I declare !’ She 
began to haul up the tails of her gown. 

“ ‘ Oh no ; ’tis the axle,’ said Tony, in an assuring 
way. ‘It do go like that sometimes in dry weather.’ 

“ ‘ Perhaps it was. . . . Well, now, to be quite honest, 
dear Tony, do you like her better than me ? Because 
— because, although I’ve held off so independent, I’ll 
own at last that I do like ’ee, Tony, to tell the truth ; 
and I wouldn’t say no if you asked me — you know 
what.’ 

“Tony was so won over by this pretty offering 
mood of a girl who had been quite the reverse (Han- 
nah had a backward way with her at times, if you can 
mind) that he just glanced behind, and then whispered 
very soft, ‘ I haven’t quite promised her, and I think 
I can get out of it, and ask you that question you 
speak of.’ 

“ ‘ Throw over Milly ? — all to marry me ! How de- 
lightful !’ broke out Hannah, quite loud, clapping her 
hands. 

“ At this there was a real squeak — an angry, spite- 
ful squeak, and afterwards a long moan, as if something 
had broke its heart, and a movement of the wagon 
cloth. 


TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVEB 199 

44 4 Something’s there !’ said Hannah, starting up. 

44 4 It’s nothing, really,’ says Tony, in a soothing 
voice, and praying inwardly for a way out of this. 

4 1 wouldn’t tell ’ee at first, because I wouldn’t fright- 
en ’ee. But, Hannah, I’ve really a couple of ferrets 
in a bag under there, for rabbiting, i nd they quarrel 
sometimes. I don’t wish it knowed, as ’twould be 
called poaching. Oh, they can’t get out, bless ye ! — 
you are quite safe. And — and — what a fine day it is, 
isn’t it, Hannah, for this time of year ? Be you going 
to market next Saturday ? How is your aunt now ?’ 
And so on, says Tony, to keep her from talking any 
more about love in Milly’s hearing. 

44 But he found his work cut out for him, and won- 
dering again how he should get out of this ticklish 
business, he looked about for a chance. Hearing home 
he saw his father in a field not far off, holding up his 
hand as if he wished to speak to Tony. 

444 Would you mind taking the reins a moment, 
Hannah,’ he said, much relieved, 4 while I go and find 
out what father wants ?’ 

44 She consented, and away he hastened into the field, 
only too glad to get breathing-time. He found that 
his father was looking at him with rather a stern eye. 

44 4 Come, come, Tony,’ says old Mr. Kytes, as soon as 
his son was alongside him, 4 this won’t do, you know.’ 

44 4 What ?’ says Tony. 

44 4 Why, if you mean to marry Milly Richards, do 
it, and there’s an end o’t. But don’t go driving about 
the country with Jolliver’s daughter and making a 
scandal. I won’t have such things done.’ 

44 4 1 only asked her — that is, she asked me — to ride 
home.’ 

44 4 She ? Why, now, if it had been Milly, ’twould 
have been quite proper ; but you and Hannah Jolliver 
going about by yourselves — ’ 


lifers utile irokies 


m 


“ ‘Milly’s there, too, father.’ 

“ 1 Milly ? Where ?’ 

“ ‘ Under the tarpaulin ! Yes ; the truth is, father, 
I’ve got rather into a nunny-watch, I’m afeard! Unity 
Sallet is there, too — yes, under the other end of the 
tarpaulin. All three are in that wagon, and what to 
do with ’em I know no more than the dead. The best 
plan is, as I’m thinking, to speak out loud and plain 
to one of ’em before the rest, and that will settle it ; 
not but what ’twill cause ’em to kick up a bit of a 
miff, for certain. Now, which would you marry, fa- 
ther, if you was in my place ?’ 

“ ‘ Whichever of ’em did not ask to ride with thee.’ 

“ ‘ That was Milly, I’m bound to say, as she only 
mounted by my invitation. But Milly — ’ 

“ ‘ Then stick to Milly, she’s the best. . . . But look at 
that !’ 

“ His father pointed towards the wagon. ‘ She can’t 
hold that horse in. You shouldn’t have left the reins 
in her hands. Run on and take the horse’s head, or 
there’ll be some accident to them maids !’ 

“ Tony’s horse, in fact, in spite of Hannah’s tugging 
at the reins, had started on his way at a brisk walking 
pace, being very anxious to get back to the stable, for 
he had had a long day out. Without another word, 
Tony rushed away from his father to overtake the 
horse. 

“Now, of all things that could have happened to 
wean him from Milly, there was nothing so powerful 
as his father’s recommending her. No ; it could not 
be Milly, after all. Hannah must be the one, since he 
could not marry all three. This he thought while 
running after the wagon. But queer things were hap- 
pening inside it. 

“ It was, of course, Milly who had screamed under 
the tarpaulin, being obliged to let off her bitter rage 


TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER 201 

and shame in that way at what Tony was saying, and 
never daring to show, for very pride and dread o’ be- 
ing laughed at, that she was in hiding. She became 
more and more restless, and in twisting herself about, 
what did she see but another woman’s foot and white 
stocking close to her head. It quite frightened her, 
not knowing that Unity Sallet was in the wagon like- 
wise. But after the fright was over she determined 
to get to the bottom of all this, and she crept and 
crept along the bed of the wagon, under the cloth, 
like a snake, when lo and behold she came face to face 
with Unity. 

Well, if this isn’t disgraceful !’ says Milly, in a 
raging whisper, to Unity. 

“ ‘ ’Tis,’ says Unity, ‘to see you hiding in a young 
man’s wagon like this, and no great character belong- 
ing to either of ye !’ 

“ ‘ Mind what you are saying !’ replied Milly, get- 
ting louder. ‘I am engaged to be married to him, 
and haven’t I a right to be here ? What right have 
you, I should like to know ? What has he been prom- 
ising you ? A pretty lot of nonsense, I expect ! But 
what Tony says to other women is all mere wind, and 
no concern to me !’ 

“ ‘ Don’t you be too sure !’ says Unity. ‘ He’s go- 
ing to have Hannah, and not you, nor me either ; I 
could hear that.’ 

“Now, at these strange voices sounding from under 
the cloth Hannah was thunderstruck a’most into a 
swound ; and it was just at this time that the horse 
moved on. Hannah tugged away wildly, not know- 
ing what she was doing ; and as the quarrel rose 
louder and louder Hannah got so horrified that she let 
go the reins altogether. The horse went on at his 
own pace, and coming to the corner where we turn 
round to drop down the hill to Lower Longpuddle 


m 


life's little ironies 


he turned too quick, the off-wheels went up the bank, 
the wagon rose sideways till it was quite on edge 
upon the near axles, and out rolled the three maidens 
into the road in a heap. 

“ When Tony came up, frightened and breathless, 
he was relieved enough to see that neither of his dar- 
lings was hurt, beyond a few scratches from the bram- 
bles of the hedge. But he was rather alarmed when 
he heard how they were going on at one another. 

44 4 Don't ye quarrel, my dears — don’t ye !’ says he, 
taking off his hat out of respect to ’em. And then he 
would have kissed them all round, as fair and square 
as a man could, but they were in too much of a taking 
to let him, and screeched and sobbed till they was 
quite spent. 

“‘Now, I’ll speak out honest, because I ought to,’ 
says Tony, as soon as he could get heard. 4 And this 
is the truth,’ says he : 4 I’ve asked Hannah to be mine, 
and she is willing, and we are going to put up the 
banns next — ’ 

“Tony had not noticed that Hannah’s father was 
coming up behind, nor had he noticed that Hannah’s 
face was beginning to bleed from the scratch of a 
bramble. Hannah had seen her father, and had run 
to him, crying worse than ever. 

“ 4 My daughter is not willing, sir,’ says Mr. Jolliver, 
hot and strong. 4 Be you willing, Hannah ? I ask ye 
to have spirit enough to refuse him, if yer virtue is 
left to ’ee and you run no risk ?’ 

“ 4 She’s as sound as a bell for me, that I’ll swear !’ 
says Tony, flaring up. 4 And so’s the others, come to 
that, though you may think it an onusual thing !’ 

“ 4 1 have spirit, and I do refuse him !’ says Hannah, 
partly because her father was there, and partly, too, 
in a tantrum because of the discovery and the scratch 
on her face. 4 Little did I think when I was so soft 


TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER 203 

with him just now that I was talking to such a false 
deceiver !’ 

“ ‘ What, you won’t have me, Hannah ?’ says Tony, 
his jaw hanging down like a dead man’s. 

“ ‘Never; I would sooner marry no — nobody at all!’ 
she gasped out, though with her heart in her throat, 
for she would not have refused Tony if he had asked 
her quietly, and her father had not been there, and 
her face had not been scratched by the bramble. And 
having said that, away she walked upon her father’s 
arm, thinking and hoping he would ask her again. 

“ Tony didn’t know what to say next. Milly was 
sobbing her heart out ; but as his father had strongly 
recommended her he couldn’t feel inclined that way. 
So he turned to Unity. 

“ ‘Well, will you, Unity dear, be mine?’ he says. 

“‘Take her leavings? Not I!’ says Unity. ‘I’d 
scorn it!’ And away walks Unity Sallet likewise, 
though she looked back when she’d gone some way, 
to see if he was following her. 

“ So there at last were left Milly and Tony by them- 
selves, she crying in watery streams, and Tony looking 
like a tree struck by lightning. 

“ ‘Well, Milly,’ he says at last, going up to her, ‘it 
do seem as if fate had ordained that it should be you 
and I, or nobody. And what must be must be, I sup- 
pose. Hey, Milly?’ 

“ ‘If you like, Tony. You didn’t really mean what 
you said to them?’ 

“ ‘Not a word of it,’ declares Tony, bringing down 
his fist upon his palm. 

“And then he kissed her, and put the wagon to 
rights, and they mounted together ; and their banns 
were put up the very next Sunday. I was not able to 
go to their wedding, but it was a rare party they had, 
by all account. Everybody in Longpuddle was there 


204 


life’s little ironies 


almost ; you among the rest, I think, Mr. Flaxton?” 
Th^ speaker turned to the parish-clerk. 

“ I was,” said Mr. Flaxton. ‘And that party was 
the cause of a very curious change in some other peo- 
ple’s affairs ; I mean in Steve Hardcome’s and his 
cousin James’s.” 

“Ah! the Hardcomes,” said the stranger. “How 
familiar that name is to me! What of them?” 

The clerk cleared his throat and began : 


THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOMES 


“ Yes, Tony’s was tlie very best wedding-randy that 
ever I was at ; and I’ve been at a good many, as you 
may suppose” — turning to the newly- arrived one — 
a having, as a Church officer, the privilege to attend all 
christening, wedding, and funeral parties — such being 
our Wessex custom. 

“ ’Twas on a frosty night in Christmas week, and 
among the folk invited were the said Hardcomes o’ 
Climmerston — Steve and James — first cousins, both of 
them small farmers, just entering into business on their 
own account. With them came, as a matter of course, 
their intended wives, two young women of the neigh- 
borhood, both very pretty and sprightly maidens, and 
numbers of friends from Abbot’s-Cernel and Weather- 
bury and Mellstock and I don’t know where — a regu- 
lar houseful. 

“ The kitchen was cleared of furniture for dancing, 
and the old folk played at ‘Put’ and ‘All-fours’ in 
the parlor, though at last they gave that up to join in 
the dance. The top of the figure was by the large 
front window of the room, and there were so many 
couples that the lower part of the figure reached 
through the door at the back, and into the darkness 
of the out-house ; in fact, you couldn’t see the end of 
the row at all, and ’twas never known exactly how 
long that dance was, the lowest couples being lost 
among the fagots and brushwood in the out-house. 

“ When we had danced a few hours, and the crowns 
of we taller men were swelling into lumps with bump- 


206 


life’s little ironies 


ing the beams of the ceiling, the first fiddler laid down 
his fiddle-bow, and said he should play no more, for he 
wished to dance. And in another hour the second 
fiddler laid down his, and said he wanted to dance, 
too ; so there was only the third fiddler left, and he 
was a’ old, aged man, very weak in the wrist. How- 
ever, he managed to keep up a feeble tweedle-dee; 
but there being no chair in the room, and his knees 
being as weak as his wrists, he was obliged to sit upon 
as much of the little corner-table as projected beyond 
the corner cupboard fixed over it, which was not a very 
wide seat for a man advanced in years. 

“Among those who danced most continually were 
the two engaged couples, as was natural to their situ- 
ation. Each pair was very well matched, and very 
unlike the other. James Hardcome’s intended was 
called Emily Darth, and both she and James were 
gentle, nice -minded, in-door people, fond of a quiet 
life. Steve and his chosen, named Olive Pawle, were 
different ; they were of a more bustling nature, fond 
of racketing about and seeing what was going on 
in the world. The two couples had arranged to get 
married on the same day, and that not long thence ; 
Tony’s wedding being a sort of stimulant, as is often 
the case ; I’ve noticed it professionally many times. 

“They danced with such a will as only young peo- 
ple in that stage of courtship can dance ; and it hap- 
pened that as the evening wore on James had for his 
partner Stephen’s plighted one, Olive, at the same time 
that Stephen was dancing with James’s Emily. It was 
noticed that in spite o’ the exchange the young men 
seemed to enjoy the dance no less than before. By- 
and-by they were treading another tune in the same 
changed order as we had noticed earlier, and though 
at first each one had held the other’s mistress strictly 
at half -arm’s length, lest there should be shown any 


THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOME8 207 

objection to too close quarters by the lady’s proper 
man, as time passed there was a little more closeness 
between ’em; and presently a little more closeness 
still. 

“ The later it got the more did each of the two 
cousins dance with the wrong young girl, and the 
tighter did he hold her to his side as he whirled her 
round; and, what was very remarkable, neither seemed 
to mind what the other was doing. The party began 
to draw towards its end, and I saw no more that night, 
being one of the first to leave, on account of my serious 
calling. But I learned the rest of it from those that 
knew. 

“After finishing a particularly warming dance 
with the changed partners, as I’ve mentioned, the 
two young men looked at one another, and in a mo- 
ment or two went out into the porch together. 

“‘James,’ says Steve, ‘what were you thinking of 
when you were dancing with my Olive?’ 

“‘Well,’ said James, ‘perhaps what you were 
thinking of when you were dancing with my Emily.’ 

“ ‘ I was thinking,’ said Steve, with some hesita- 
tion, ‘ that I wouldn’t mind changing for good and 
all !’ 

“ ‘It was what I was feeling likewise,’ said James. 

“ ‘ I willingly agree to it, if you think we could 
manage it.’ 

“ ‘ So do I. But what would the girls say ?’ 

“ ‘ ’Tis my belief,’ said Steve, ‘ that they wouldn’t 
particularly object. Your Emily clung as close to me 
as if she already belonged to me, dear girl.’ 

“‘And your Olive to me,’ says James. ‘I could 
feel her heart beating like a clock.’ 

“ Well, they agreed to put it to the girls when they 
were all four walking home together. And they did 
so. When they parted that night the exchange was 


208 


life’s little ironies 


decided on — all having been done under the hot ex- 
citement of that evening’s dancing. Thus it happened 
that on the following Sunday morning, when the 
people were sitting in church with mouths wide open 
to hear the names published as they had expected, 
there was no small amazement to hear them coupled 
the wrong way, as it seemed. The congregation whis- 
pered, and thought the parson had made a mistake, 
till they discovered that his reading of the names was 
verily the true way. As they had decided, so they 
were married, each one to the other’s original prop- 
erty. 

“Well, the two couples lived on for a year or two 
ordinarily enough, till the time came when these 
young people began to grow a little less warm to 
their respective spouses, as is the rule of married life ; 
and the two cousins wondered more and more in their 
hearts what had made ’em so mad at the last moment 
to marry crosswise as they did, when they might have 
married straight, as was planned by nature, and as 
they had fallen in love. ’Twas Tony’s party that had 
done it, plain enough, and they half wished they had 
never gone there. James, being a quiet, fireside, pe- 
rusing man, felt at times a wide gap between himself 
and Olive, his wife, who loved riding and driving and 
out-door jaunts to a degree ; while Steve, who was 
always knocking about hither and thither, had a 
very domestic wife, who worked samplers, and made 
hearth-rugs, scarcely ever wished to cross the thresh- 
old, and only drove out with him to please him. 

“However, they said very little about this mis- 
mating to any of their acquaintances, though some- 
times Steve would look at James’s wife and sigh, and 
James would look at Steve’s wife and do the same. 
Indeed, at last the two men were frank enough tow- 
ards each other not to mind mentioning it quietly 


THE HISTORY OF THE IIARDCOMES 209 

to themselves, in a long - faced, sorry - smiling, whim- 
sical sort of way, and would shake their heads to- 
gether over their foolishness in upsetting a well-con- 
sidered choice on the strength of an hour’s fancy in 
the whirl and wildness of a dance. Still, they were 
sensible and honest young fellows enough, and did 
their best to make shift with their lot as they had ar- 
ranged it, and not to repine at what could not now 
be altered or mended. 

“ So things remained till one fine summer day they 
went for their yearly little outing together, as they 
had made it their custom to do for a long while past. 
This year they chose Budmouth-Regis as the place to 
spend their holiday in; and off they went in their 
best clothes at nine o’clock in the morning. 

“When they had reached Budmouth-Regis they 
walked two and two along the shore — their new boots 
going squeakity-squash upon the clammy velvet sands. 
I can seem to see ’em now ! Then they looked at the 
ships in the harbor ; and then went up to the Look- 
out; and then had dinner at an inn ; and then again 
walked two and two, squeakity-squash, upon the vel- 
vet sands. As evening drew on they sat on one of 
the public seats upon the Esplanade, and listened to 
the band ; and then they said “ What shall we do 
next ?” 

“ ( Of all things,’ said Olive (Mrs. James Hardcome, 
that is), ‘ I should like to row in the bay ! We could 
listen to the music from the water as well as from 
here, and have the fun of rowing besides.’ 

“ ‘ The very thing ; so should I,’ says Stephen, his 
tastes being always like hers. 

Here the clerk turned to the curate. 

“ But you, sir, know the rest of the strange partic- 
ulars of that strange evening of their lives better 
than anybody else, having had much of it from their 
14 


210 


life’s little ironies 


own lips, which I had not ; and perhaps you’ll oblige 
the gentleman ?” 

“ Certainly, if it is wished,” said the curate. And 
he took up the clerk’s tale : 

“Stephen’s wife hated the sea, except from land, 
and couldn’t bear the thought of going into a boat. 
James, too, disliked the water, and said that for his 
part he would much sooner stay on and listen to the 
band in the seat they occupied, though he did not 
wish to stand in his wife’s way if she desired a row. 
The end of the discussion was that James and his 
cousin’s wife Emily agreed to remain where they 
were sitting and enjoy the music, while they watched 
the other two hire a boat just beneath, and take their 
water excursion of half an hour or so, till they should 
choose to come back and join the sitters on the Es- 
planade, when they would all start homeward together. 

“Nothing could have pleased the other two restless 
ones better than this arrangement; and Emily and 
James watched them go down to the boatman be- 
low and choose one of the little yellow skiffs, and 
walk carefully out upon the little plank that was 
laid on trestles to enable them to get alongside the 
craft. They saw Stephen hand Olive in, and take 
his seat facing her ; when they were settled they 
waved their hands to the couple watching them, and 
then Stephen took the pair of sculls and pulled off 
to the tune beat by the band, she steering through 
the other boats skimming about, for the sea was as 
smooth as glass that evening, and pleasure -seekers 
were rowing everywhere. 

“ ‘ How pretty they look moving on, don’t they ?’ 
said Emily to James (as I’ve been assured). ‘They 
both enjoy it equally. In everything their likings are 
the same.’ 


THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOMES 211 

“ 4 That’s true,’ said James. 

" ‘ They would have made a handsome pair if they 
had married,’ said she. 

“ 4 Yes,’ said he. 4 ’Tis a pity we should have part- 
ed ’em.’ 

‘“Don’t talk of that, James,’ said she. 4 For better 
or for worse we decided to do as we did, and there’s 
an end of it.’ 

44 They sat on after that without speaking, side by 
side, and the band played as before; the people strolled 
up and down, and Stephen and Olive shrank smaller 
and smaller as they shot straight out to sea. The two 
on shore used to relate how they saw Stephen stop 
rowing a moment, and take off his coat to get at his 
work better; but James’s wife sat quite still in the 
stern, holding the tiller-ropes by which she steered 
the boat. When they had got very small indeed she 
turned her head to shore. 

44 4 She is waving her handkerchief to us,’ said Ste- 
phen’s wife, who thereupon pulled out her own, and 
waved it as a return signal. 

“The boat’s course had been a little awry while 
Mrs. James neglected her steering to wave her hand- 
kerchief to her husband and Mrs. Stephen; but now 
the light skiff went straight onward again, and they 
could soon see nothing more of the two figures it con- 
tained than Olive’s light mantle and Stephen’s white 
shirt-sleeves behind. 

“The two on the shore talked on. 4 ’Twas very 
curious — our changing partners at Tony Kytes’s wed- 
ding,’ Emily declared. 4 Tony was of a fickle nature 
by all account, and it really seemed as if his character 
had infected us that night. Which of you two was 
it that first proposed not to marry as we were en- 
gaged?’ 

‘“H’m — I can’t remember at this moment,’ says 


212 


life’s little ironies 


James. 4 We talked it over, you know, and no sooner 
said than done.’ 

“ 4 ’Twas the dancing,’ said she. 4 People get quite 
crazy sometimes in a dance.’ 

44 4 They do,’ he owned. 

44 4 James — do you think they care for one another 
still ?’ asks Mrs. Stephen. 

44 James Hardcome mused, and admitted that per- 
haps a little tender feeling might flicker up in their 
hearts for a moment now and then. 4 Still, nothing of 
any account,’ he said. 

44 4 1 sometimes think that Olive is in Steve’s mind 
a good deal,’ murmurs Mrs. Stephen; 4 particularly 
when she pleases his fancy by riding past our window 
at a gallop on one of the draught-horses. ... I never 
could do anything of that sort; I could never get over 
my fear of a horse.’ 

44 4 And I am no horseman, though I pretend to be 
on her account,’ murmured James Hardcome. 4 But 
isn’t it almost time for them to turn and sweep round 
to the shore, as the other boating folk have done ? I 
wonder what Olive means by steering away straight 
to the horizon like that ? She has hardly swerved from 
a direct line seaward since they started.’ 

44 4 No doubt they are talking, and don’t think of 
where they are going,’ suggests Stephen’s wife. 

44 4 Perhaps so,’ said James. 4 1 didn’t know Steve 
could row like that.’ 

44 4 Oh yes,’ says she. 4 He often comes here on busi- 
ness, and generally has a pull round the bay.’ 

44 4 1 can hardly see the boat or them,’ says James 
again ; 4 and it is getting dark.’ 

44 The heedless pair afloat now formed a mere speck 
in the films of the coming night, which thickened apace, 
till it completely swallowed up their distant shapes. 
They had disappeared while still following the same 


THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOMES 


213 


straight course away from the world of land-livers, as 
if they were intending to drop over the sea-edge into 
space, and never return to earth again. 

“ The two on the shore continued to sit on, punctu- 
ally abiding by their agreement to remain on the same 
spot till the others returned. The Esplanade lamps 
were lit one by one, the bandsmen folded up their 
stands and departed, the yachts in the bay hung out 
their riding lights, and the little boats came back to 
shore one after another, their hirers walking on to the 
sands by the plank they had climbed to go afloat ; but 
among these Stephen and Olive did not appear. 

“ ‘ What a time they are !’ said Emily. ‘I am get- 
ting quite chilly. I did not expect to have to sit so 
long in the evening air. , 

“Thereupon James Hardcome said that he did not 
require his overcoat, and insisted on lending it to her. 

“ He wrapped it round Emily’s shoulders. 

“‘Thank you, James,’ she said. ‘How cold Olive 
must be in that thin jacket!’ 

“ He said he was thinking so, too. ‘Well, they are 
sure to be quite close at hand by this time, though we 
can’t see ’em. The boats are not all in yet. Some of 
the rowers are fond of paddling along the shore to 
finish out their hour of hiring.’ 

“ ‘ Shall we walk by the edge of the water,’ said she, 
‘ to see if we can discover them ?’ 

“ He assented, reminding her that they must not 
lose sight of the seat, lest the belated pair should re- 
turn and miss them, and be vexed that they had not 
kept the appointment. 

“ They walked a sentry beat up and down the sands 
immediately opposite the seat; and still the others did 
not come. James Hardcome at last went to the boat- 
man, thinking that after all his wife and cousin might 
have come in under shadow of the dusk without being 


214 life’s little ironies 

perceived, and might have forgotten the appointment 
at the bench. 

“ ‘ All in ?’ asked James. 

“ ‘ All but one boat,’ said the lessor. ‘ I can’t think 
where that couple is keeping to. They might run foul 
of something or other in the dark.’ 

“ Again Stephen’s wife and Olive’s husband waited, 
with more and more anxiety. But no little yellow 
boat returned. Was it possible they could have land- 
ed farther down the Esplanade ? 

“‘It may have been done to escape paying,’ said 
the boat -owner. 4 But they didn’t look like people 
who would do that.’ 

“James Hardcome knew that he could found no 
hope on such a reason as that. But now, remember- 
ing what had been casually discussed between Steve 
and himself about their wives from time to time, he 
admitted for the first time the possibility that their 
old tenderness had been revived by their face-to-face 
position more strongly than either had anticipated at 
starting — the excursion having been so obviously un- 
dertaken for the pleasure of the performance only — 
and that they had landed at some steps he knew of 
farther down towards the pier, to be longer alone 
together. 

“ Still he disliked to harbor the thought, and would 
not mention its existence to his companion. He merely 
said to her, ‘ Let us walk farther on.’ 

“ They did so, and lingered between the boat-stage 
and the pier till Stephen Hardcome’s wife was uneasy, 
and was obliged to accept James’s offered arm. Thus 
the night advanced. Emily was presently so worn out 
by fatigue that James felt it necessary to conduct her 
home ; there was, too, a remote chance that the truants 
had landed in the harbor on the other side of the town, 
or elsewhere, and hastened home in some unexpected 


THE HISTORY OP THE HARDCJOMES 


215 


way, in the belief that their spouses would not have 
waited so long. 

“ However, he left a direction in the town that a 
lookout should be kept, though this was arranged 
privately, the bare possibility of an elopement being 
enough to make him reticent ; and, full of misgivings, 
the two remaining ones hastened to catch the last train 
out of Budmouth-Regis ; and when they got to Castel- 
bridge drove back to Upper Longpuddle.” 

“ Along this very road as we do now,” remarked the 
parish -clerk. 

“To be sure — along this very road,” said the cu- 
rate. “ However, Stephen and Olive were not at their 
homes ; neither had entered the village since leaving it 
in the morning. Emily and James Hardcome went to 
their respective dwellings to snatch a hasty night’s 
rest, and at daylight the next morning they drove 
again to Oasterbridge and entered the Budmouth train. 

“Nothing had been heard of the couple there dur- 
ing this brief absence. In the course of a few hours 
some young men testified to having seen such a man 
and woman rowing in a frail hired craft, the head of 
the boat kept straight to sea ; they had sat looking in 
each other’s face as if they were in a dream, with no 
consciousness of what they were doing, or whither 
they were steering. It was not till late that day that 
more tidings reached James’s ears. The boat had 
been found drifting bottom upward a long way from 
land. In the evening the sea rose somewhat, and a cry 
spread through the town that two bodies were cast 
ashore in Lullstead Bay, several miles to the east- 
ward. They were brought to Budmouth, and inspec- 
tion revealed them to be the missing pair. It was said 
that they had been found tightly locked in each 
other’s arms, his lips upon hers, their features still 
wrapt in the same calm and dream-like repose which 


216 life’s little ikonies 

had been observed in their demeanor as they had 
glided along. 

“Neither James nor Emily questioned the original 
motives of the unfortunate man and woman in put- 
ting to sea. They were both above suspicion as to in- 
tention. Whatever their mutual feelings might have 
led them on to, underhand behavior was foreign to the 
nature of either. Conjecture pictured that they might 
have fallen into tender reverie while gazing each into 
a pair of eyes that had formerly flashed for him and 
her alone, and, unwilling to avow what their mutual 
sentiments were, they had continued thus, oblivious of 
time and space, till darkness suddenly overtook them 
far from land. But nothing was truly known. It had 
been their destiny to die thus. The two halves, in- 
tended by Nature to make the perfect whole, had failed 
in that result during their lives, though ‘ in their death 
they were not divided.’ Their bodies were brought 
home, and buried on one day. I remember that, on 
looking round the church-yard while reading the ser- 
vice, I observed nearly all the parish at their funeral.” 

“ It was so, sir,” said the clerk. 

“ The remaining two,” continued the curate (whose 
voice had grown husky while relating the lovers’ sad 
fate), “ were a more thoughtful and far-seeing, though 
less romantic, couple than the first. They were now 
mutually bereft of a companion, and found themselves 
by this accident in a position to fulfil their destiny 
according to Nature’s plan and their own original 
and calmly-formed intention. James Hardcome took 
Emily to wife in the course of a year and a half ; and 
the marriage proved in every respect a happy one. I 
solemnized the service, Hardcome having told me, 
when he came to give notice of the proposed wedding, 
the story of his first wife’s loss almost word for word 
as I have told it to you.” 


THE HISTOEY OF THE HAEDCOMES 


217 


“ And are they living in Longpuddle still ?” asked 
the new-comer. 

“ Oh no, sir,” interposed the clerk. “ James has been 
dead these dozen years, and his mis’ess about six or 
seven. They had no children. William Privett used 
to be their odd man till he died.” 

“Ah — William Privett ! He, dead too ? — dear me !” 
said the other. “ All passed away !” 

“Yes, sir. William was much older than I. He’d 
ha’ been over eighty if he had lived till now.” 

“ There was something very strange about William’s 
death — -very strange indeed !” sighed a melancholy man 
in the back of the van. It was the seedsman’s father, 
who had hitherto kept silence. 

“And what might that have been?” asked Mr. Lack- 
land. 


THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN’S STORY 


“ William, as you may know, was a curious, silent 
man ; you could feel when he came near ye ; and if he 
was in the house or anywhere behind your back with- 
out your seeing him, there seemed to be something 
clammy in the air, as if a cellar door was opened close 
by your elbow. Well, one Sunday, at a time that 
William was in very good health to all appearance, 
the bell that was ringing for church went very heavy 
all of a sudden ; the sexton, who told me o’t, said he’d 
not known the bell go so heavy in his hand for years — it 
was just as if the gudgeons wanted oiling. That was on 
the Sunday, as I say. During the week after, it chanced 
that William’s wife was staying up late one night to 
finish her ironing, she doing the washing for Mr. 
and Mrs. Hardcome. Her husband had finished his 
supper and gone to bed as usual some hour or two be- 
fore. While she ironed she heard him coming down- 
stairs ; he stopped to put on his boots at the stair-foot, 
where he always left them, and then came on into the 
living-room where she was ironing, passing through it 
towards the door, this being the only way from the 
staircase to the outside of the house. No word was 
said on either side, William not being a man given to 
much speaking, and his wife being occupied with her 
work. He went out and closed the door behind him. 
As her husband had now and then gone out in this way 
at night before when unwell, or unable to sleep for 
want of a pipe, she took no particular notice, and con- 
tinued at her ironing. This she finished shortly after, 


THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN*S STORY 219 

and as he had not come in she waited awhile for him, 
putting away the irons and things, and preparing the 
table for his breakfast in the morning. Still he did not 
return, but supposing him not far off, and wanting to 
get to bed herself, tired as she was, she left the door 
unbarred and went to the stairs, after writing on the 
back of the door with chalk : Mind and do the door 
(because he was a forgetful man). 

“ To her great surprise, I might say alarm, on reach- 
ing the foot of the stairs his boots were standing there 
as they always stood when he had gone to rest ; going 
up to their chamber she found him in bed sleeping as 
sound as a rock. How he could have got back again 
without her seeing or hearing him was beyond her 
comprehension. It could only have been by passing 
behind her very quietly while she was bumping with 
the iron. But this notion did not satisfy her ; it was 
surely impossible that she should not have seen him 
come in through a room so small. She could not un- 
ravel the mystery, and felt very queer and uncom- 
fortable about it. However, she would not disturb 
him to question him then, and went to bed herself. 

“ He rose and left for his work very early the next 
morning, before she was awake, and she waited his 
return to breakfast with much anxiety for an expla- 
nation, for thinking over the matter by daylight made 
it seem only the more startling. When he came in 
to the meal he said, before she could put her question, 
“ What’s the meaning of them words chalked on the 
door ?” 

“ She told him, and asked him about his going out 
the night before. William declared that he had never 
left the bedroom after entering it, having in fact un- 
dressed, lain down, and fallen asleep directly, never 
once waking till the clock struck five, and he rose up 
to go to his labor. 


220 


life’s little ironies 


“ Betty Privett was as certain in her own mind 
that he did go out as she was of her own existence, 
and was little less certain that he did not return. She 
felt too disturbed to argue with him, and let the sub- 
ject drop as though she must have been mistaken. 
When she was walking down Longpuddle Street, later 
in the day, she met Jim Weedle’s daughter Nancy, 
and said, ‘ Well, Nancy, you do look sleepy to-day !’ 

“‘Yes, Mrs. Privett,” says Nancy. “Now don’t 
tell anybody, but I don’t mind letting you know what 
the reason o’t is. Last night being Old Midsummer 
Eve, some of us went to church porch, and didn’t get 
home till near one.’ 

“‘Did ye?’ says Mrs. Privett. ‘Old Midsummer 
yesterday, was it ? Faith, I didn’t think whe’r ’twas 
Midsummer or Michaelmas; I’d too much work to do.’ 

“ ‘Yes. And we were frightened enough, I can tell 
’ee, by what we saw.’ 

‘“What did ye see?’ 

(“ You may not remember, sir, having gone off to 
foreign parts so young, that on Midsummer Night it 
is believed hereabout that the faint shapes of all the 
folk in the parish who are going to be at death’s door 
within the year can be seen entering the church. 
Those who get over their illness come out again after 
a while ; those that are doomed to die do not return.) 

“ ‘ What did you see ?’ asked William’s wife. 

“ ‘ Well,’ says Nancy, backwardly — ‘ we needn’t tell 
what we saw, or who we saw.’ 

“‘You saw my husband,’ says Betty Privett, in a 
quiet way. 

“‘Well, since you put it so,’ says Nancy, hanging 
fire, ‘ we — thought we did see him ; but it was dark- 
ish, and we was frightened, and of course it might not 
have been he.’ 

“ ‘ Nancy, you needn’t mind letting it out, though 


THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN’S STORY 


221 


’tis kept back in kindness. And he didn’t come out 
of church again ; I know it as well as you.’ 

“Nancy did not answer yes or no to that, and no 
more was said. But three days after, William Privett 
was mowing with John Chiles in Mr. Hardcome’s 
meadow, and in the heat of the day they sat down to 
eat their bit o’ lunch under a tree, and empty their 
flagon. Afterwards both of ’em fell asleep as they 
sat. John Chiles was the first to wake, and as he 
looked towards his fellow-mower he saw one of those 
great white miller’s-souls as we call ’em — that is to 
say, a miller-moth — come from William’s open mouth 
while he slept, and fly straight away. John thought 
it odd enough, as William had worked in a mill for 
several years when he was a boy. He then looked at 
the sun, and found by the place o’t that they had 
slept a long while, and as William did not wake, John 
called to him and said it was high time to begin work 
again. He took no notice, and then John went up 
and shook him, and found he was dead. 

“Now on that very day old Philip Hookhorn was 
down at Longpuddle Spring dipping up a pitcher of 
water ; and as he turned away, who should he see 
coming down to the spring on the other side but Will- 
iam, looking very pale and odd. This surprised Philip 
Hookhorn very much, for years before that time Will- 
iam’s little son — his only child — had been drowned in 
that spring while at play there, and this had so preyed 
upon William’s mind that he’d never been seen near 
the spring afterwards, and had been known to go half 
a mile out of his way to avoid the place. On inquiry, 
it was found that William in body could not have 
stood by the spring, being in the mead two miles 
off ; and it also came out that the time at which he 
was seen at the spring was the very time when he 
died.” 


222 


life’s little ironies 


“ A rather melancholy story,” observed the emigrant 
after a minute’s silence. 

“Yes, yes. Well, we must take ups and downs 
together,” said the seedsman’s father. 

“ You don’t know, Mr. Lackland, I suppose, what a 
rum start that was between An drey Satchel and Jane 
Vallens and the pa’son and clerk o’ Scrirnpton?” said 
the master-thatcher, a man with a spark of subdued 
liveliness in his eye, who had hitherto kept his atten- 
tion mainly upon small objects a long way ahead, 
as he sat in front of the van with his feet outside. 
“Theirs was a queerer experience of a pa’son and 
clerk than some folks get, and may cheer ’ee up a little 
after this dampness that’s been flung over yer soul. 

The returned one replied that he knew nothing of 
the history, and should be happy to hear it, quite rec- 
ollecting the personality of the man Satchel. 

“Ah, no ; this Andrey Satchel is the son of the 
Satchel that you knew ; this one has not been married 
more than two or three years, and ’twas at the time o’ 
the wedding that the accident happened that I could 
tell ’ee of, or anybody else here, for that matter.” 

“No, no; you must tell it, neighbor, if anybody,” 
said several; a request in which Mr. Lackland joined, 
adding that the Satchel family was one he had known 
well before leaving home. 

“I’ll just mention, as you be a stranger,” whispered 
the carrier to Lackland, “ that Christopher’s stories will 
bear pruning.” 

The emigrant nodded. 

“Well, I can soon tell it,” said the master-thatcher, 
schooling himself to a tone of actuality. “Though as 
it has more to do with the pa’son and clerk than wdth 
Andrey himself, it ought to be told by a better church- 
man than I.” 


ANDREY SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND 
CLERK 


“ It all arose, you must know, from Andrey being 
fond of a drop of drink at that time — though he’s a 
sober enough man now by all account, so much the 
better for him. Jane, his bride, you see, was some- 
what older than Andrey; how much older I don’t pre- 
tend to say; she was not one of our parish, and the reg- 
ister alone may be able to tell that. But, at any rate, 
her being a little ahead of her young man in mortal 
years, coupled with other bodily circumstances — ” 

(“ Ah, poor thing !” sighed the women.) 

“ — made her very anxious to get the thing done 
before he changed his mind; and ’twas with a joyful 
countenance (they say) that she, with Andrey and his 
brother and sister-in-law, marched off to church one 
November morning as soon as ’twas day a’most, to be 
made one with Andrey for the rest of her life. He had 
left our place long before it was light, and the folks 
that were up all waved their lanterns at him, and flung 
up their hats as he went. 

“The church of her parish was a mile and more 
from the houses, and, as it was a wonderful fine day for 
the time of year, the plan was that as soon as they 
were married they would make out a holiday by driv- 
ing straight off to Port Bredy, to see the ships and the 
sea and the sojers, instead of coming back to a meal 
at the house of the distant relation she lived wi’, and 
moping about there all the afternoon. 


224 


life’s little ironies 


“ Well, some folks noticed that Andrey walked with 
rather wambling steps to church that morning ; the 
truth o’t was that his nearest neighbor’s child had 
been christened the day before, and Andrey, having 
stood godfather, had stayed all night keeping up the 
christening, for he had said to himself, ‘ Not if I live 
to be a thousand shall I again be made a godfather 
one day and a husband the next and perhaps a father 
the next, and therefore I’ll make the most of the bless- 
ing.’ So that when he started from home in the morn- 
ing he had not been in bed at all. The result was, as 
I say, that when he and his bride-to-be walked up the 
church to get married, the pa’son (who was a very 
strict man inside the church, whatever he was outside) 
looked hard at Andrey, and said, very sharp : 

“ ‘ How’s this, my man ? You are in liquor. And 
so early, too. I’m ashamed of you !’ 

“‘ Well, that’s true, sir,’ says Andrey. ‘But I can 
walk straight enough for practical purposes. I can 
walk a chalk-line,’ he says (meaning no offence), ‘as 
well as some other folk : and ’ — (getting hotter) — ‘ I 
reckon that if you, Pa’son Billy Toogood, had kept up 
a christening all night so thoroughly as I have done, 
you wouldn’t be able to stand at all; damn me if you 
would !’ 

“ This answer made Pa’son Billy — as they used to 
call him — rather spitish, not to say hot, for he was a 
warm - tempered man if provoked, and he said, very 
decidedly: ‘Well, I cannot marry you in this state ; 
and I will not ! Go home and get sober !’ And he 
slapped the book together like a rat-trap. 

“ Then the bride burst out crying as if her heart 
would break, for very fear that she would lose An- 
drey after all her hard work to get him, and begged 
and implored the pa’son to go on with the ceremony. 
But no. 


ANDREY SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND CLERK 225 

“ ‘ I won’t be a party to your solemnizing matri- 
mony with a tipsy man,’ says Mr. Toogood. 4 It is 
not right and decent. I am sorry for you, my young 
woman, but you’d better go home again. I wonder 
how you could think of bringing him here drunk like 
this.’ 

44 4 But if — if he don’t come drunk he won’t come at 
all, sir !’ she says, through her sobs. 

44 4 I can’t help that,’ says the pa’son ; and plead as 
she might, it did not move him. Then she tried him 
another way. 

“‘Well, then, if you’ll go home, sir, and leave us 
here, and come back to the church in an hour or two, 
I’ll undertake to say that he shall be as sober as a 
judge,’ she cries. 4 We’ll bide here, with your per- 
mission ; for if he once goes out of this here church 
unmarried, all Yan Amburgh’s horses won’t drag him 
back again !’ 

“‘Very well,’ says the pa’son. ‘I’ll give you two 
hours, and then I’ll return.’ 

“ 4 And please, sir, lock the door, so that we can’t 
escape !’ says she. 

“ 4 Yes,’ says the pa’son. 

44 4 And let nobody know that we are here.’ 

44 The pa’son then took off his clane white surplice, 
and went away; and the others consulted upon the 
best means for keeping the matter a secret, which it 
was not a very hard thing to do, the place being so 
lonely, and the hour so early. The witnesses — An- 
drey’s brother and brother’s wife, neither one o’ which 
cared about Andrey’s marrying Jane, and had come 
rather against their will — said they couldn’t wait two 
hours in that hole of a place, wishing to get home 
to Longpuddle before dinner-time. They were alto- 
gether so crusty that the clerk said there was no dif- 
ficulty in their doing as they wished. They could go 
15 


326 life’s LimE IRONIES 

home as if their brother’s wedding had actually taken 
place, and the married couple had gone onward for 
their day’s pleasure jaunt to Port Bredy as intended. 
He, the clerk, and any casual passer-by would act as 
witnesses when the pa’son came back. 

“ This was agreed to, and away Andrey’s relations 
went, nothing loath, and the clerk shut the church 
door and prepared to lock in the couple. The bride 
went up and whispered to him, with her eyes a-stream- 
ing still. 

“ ‘ My dear good clerk,’ she says, ‘ if we bide here 
in the church, folk may see us through the winders, 
and find out what has happened; and ’t would cause 
such a talk and scandal that I never should get over 
it ; and perhaps, too, dear Andrey might try to get 
out and leave me ! Will ye lock us up in the tower, 
my dear good clerk ?’ she says. 4 I’ll tole him in there 
if you will.’ 

“ The clerk had no objection to do this to oblige the 
poor young woman, and they toled Andrey into the 
tower, and the clerk locked ’em both up straightway, 
and then went home, to return at the end of the two 
hours. 

“ Pa’son Toogood had not been long in his house 
after leaving the church when he saw a gentleman in 
pink and top-boots ride past his windows, and with a 
sudden flash of heat he called to mind that the hounds 
met that day just on the edge of his parish. The 
pa’son was one who dearly loved sport, and much he 
longed to be there. 

“In short, except o’ Sundays and at tide-times in 
the week, Pa’son Billy was the life o’ the hunt. ’Tis 
true that he was poor, and that he rode all of a heap, 
and that his black mare was rat-tailed and old, and 
his tops older, and all over of one color, whity-brown, 
and full o’ cracks. But he’d been in at the death of 


ANDREY SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND CLERK 227 

three thousand foxes. And — being a bachelor man — 
every time he went to bed in summer he used to open 
the bed at bottom and crawl up head -foremost, to 
mind en of the coming winter and the good sport he’d 
have, and the foxes going to earth. And whenever 
there was a christening at the squire’s, and he had din- 
ner there afterwards, as he always did, he never failed 
to christen the chiel over again in a bottle of port- wine. 

“Now the clerk was the pa’son’s groom and gar- 
dener and jineral manager, and had just got back to 
his work in the garden when he, too, saw the hunting 
man pass, and presently saw lots more of ’em, noble- 
men and gentry, and then he saw the hounds, the 
huntsman, Jim Treadhedge, the whipper-in, and I 
don’t know who besides. The clerk loved going to 
cover as frantical as the pa’son, so much so that, when- 
ever he saw or heard the pack, he could no more rule 
his feelings than if they were the winds of heaven. 
He might be bedding, or he might be sowing — all was 
forgot. So he throws down his spade and rushes in 
to the pa’son, who was by this time as frantical to go 
as he. 

“ ‘ That there mare of yours, sir, do want exercise 
bad, very bad, this morning !’ the clerk says, all of a 
tremble. ‘Don’t ye think I’d better trot her round 
the downs for an hour, sir ?’ 

“‘To be sure, she does want exercise badly. I’ll 
trot her round myself,’ says the pa’son. 

“ ‘ Oh ! — you’ll trot her yerself ? Well, there’s the 
cob, sir. Really that cob is getting oncontrollable 
through biding in a stable so long ! If you wouldn’t 
mind my putting on the saddle — ’ 

“‘Very well. Take him out, certainly,’ says the 
pa’son, never caring what the clerk did so long as he 
himself could get off immediately. So, scrambling 
into his riding-boots and breeches as quick as he could, 


228 


life’s little ironies 


he rode off towards the meet, intending to be back 
in an hour. No sooner was he gone than the clerk 
mounted the cob, and was off after him. When the 
pa’son got to the meet, he found a lot of friends, and 
was as jolly as he could be; the hounds found a’most 
as soon as they threw off, and there was great excite- 
ment. So, forgetting that he had meant to go back at 
once, away rides the pa’son with the rest p’ the hunt, 
all across the fallow ground that lies between Lippet 
Wood and Green’s Copse; and as he galloped he looked 
behind for a moment, and there was the clerk close to 
his heels. 

“ 4 Ha, ha, clerk — you here ?’ he says. 

44 4 Yes, sir, here be I,’ says t’other. 

44 4 Fine exercise for the horses !’ 

44 4 Aye, sir — hee, hee !’ says the clerk. 

44 So they went on and on, into Green’s Copse, then 
across to Higher Jirton; then on across this very turn- 
pike road to Climmerston Ridge, then away towards 
Yalbury Wood; up hill and down dale, like the very 
wind, the clerk close to the pa’son, and the pa’son not 
far from the hounds. Never was there a finer run 
knowed with that pack than they had that day; and 
neither pa’son nor clerk thought one word about the 
unmarried couple locked up in the church-tower wait- 
ing to get j’ined. 

44 4 These hosses of yours, sir, will be much improved 
by this,’ says the clerk as he rode along, just a neck 
behind the pa’son. 4 ’Twas a happy thought of your 
reverent mind to bring ’em out to-day. Why, it may 
be frosty in a day or two, and then the poor things 
mid not be able to leave the stable for weeks.’ 

44 4 They may not, they may not, it is true. A mer- 
ciful man is merciful to his beast,’ says the pa’son. 

44 4 Hee, hee !’ says the clerk, glancing sly into the 
pa’son’s eye. 


ANDREY SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND CLERK 229 

“ ‘ Ha, ha!’ says the pa’son, a-glancing back into the 
clerk’s. ‘Halloo!’ he shouts, as he sees the fox break 
cover at that moment. 

“ ‘ Halloo !’ cries the clerk. i There he goes ! Why, 
dammy, there’s two foxes — ’ 

“ ‘ Hush, clerk, hush! Don’t let me hear that word 
again! Remember our calling.’ 

“ ‘ True, sir, true. But really, good sport do carry 
away a man so that he’s apt to forget his high persua- 
sion!’ And the next minute the corner of the clerk’s 
eye shot again into the corner of the pa’son’s, and the 
pa’son’s back again to the clerk’s. ‘Hee, hee!’ said 
the clerk. 

“‘Ha, ha!’ said Pa’son Toogood. 

“ ‘ Ah, sir,’ says the clerk again, ‘ this is better than 
crying Amen to your Ever-and-ever on a winter’s morn- 
ing!’ 

“ ‘ Yes, indeed, clerk! To everything there’s a sea- 
son,’ says Pa’son Toogood, quite pat, for he was a 
learned Christian man when he liked, and had chap- 
ter and ve’se at his tongue’s end, as a pa’son should. 

“At last, late in the day, the hunting came to an 
end by the fox running into a’ old woman’s cottage, 
under her table, and up the clock-case. The pa’son and 
clerk were among the first in at the death, their faces 
a-staring in at the old woman’s winder, and the clock 
striking as he’d never been heard to strik’ before. 
Then came the question of finding their way home. 

“Neither the pa’son nor the clerk knowed how they 
were going to do this, for their beasts were wellnigh 
tired down to the ground. But they started back 
along as well as they could, though they were so done 
up that they could only drag along at a’ amble, and 
not much of that at a time. 

“‘We shall never, never get there!’ groaned Mr, 
Toogood, quite bowed down, 


230 


life’s little ironies 


“ ‘ Never!’ groans the clerk. ‘ ’Tis a judgment upon 
us for our iniquities !’ 

“ ‘ I fear it is,’ murmurs the pa’son. 

“Well, ’twas quite dark afore they entered the 
pa’sonage gate, having crept into the parish as quiet 
as if they’d stole a hammer, little wishing their con- 
gregation to know what they’d been up to all day 
long. And as they were so dog-tired, and so anxious 
about the horses, never once did they think of the un- 
married couple. As soon as ever the horses had been 
stabled and fed, and the pa’son and clerk had had a 
bit and a sup theirselves, they went to bed. 

“ Next morning when Pa’son Toogood was at break- 
fast, thinking of the glorious sport he’d had the day 
before, the clerk came in a hurry to the door and asked 
to see him. 

“ ‘ It has just come into my mind, sir, that we’ve 
forgot all about the couple that we was to have mar- 
ried yesterday !’ 

“ The half-chawed victuals dropped from the pa’son’s 
mouth as if he’d been shot. ‘ Bless my soul,’ says he, 
‘ so we have ! How very awkward !’ 

“ ‘ It is, sir ; very. Perhaps we’ve ruined the 
’ooman!’ 

“‘Ah — to be sure — I remember! She ought to 
have been married before.’ 

“ ‘ If anything has happened to her up in that there 
tower, and no doctor or nuss — ’ 

(“ Ah — poor thing!” sighed the women.) 

“ ‘ — ’twill be a quarter-sessions matter for us, not 
to speak of the disgrace to the Church !’ 

“‘Good God, clerk, don’t drive me wild!’ says the 
pa’son. ‘ Why the hell didn’t I marry ’em, drunk or 
sober !’ (Pa’sons used to cuss in them days like plain 
honest men.) ‘Have you been to the church to see 
what happened to them, or inquired in the village ?’ 


AKDEBY SATCHEL AJtD THE TAHSOtf AK» CLEHlt 281 


“ ‘ Not I, sir ! It only came into my head a moment 
ago, and I always like to he second to you in Church 
matters. You could have knocked me down with a 
sparrer’s feather when I thought o’t, sir ; I assure ’ee 
you could 1’ 

“Well, the pa’son jumped up from his breakfast, 
and together they went off to the church. 

“ ‘ It is not at all likely that they are there now,’ 
says Mr. Toogood, as they went ; ‘ and indeed I hope 
they are not. They be pretty sure to have ’scaped 
and gone home.’ 

“However, they opened the church - hatch, entered 
the church- yard, and, looking up at the tower, there 
they seed a little small white face at the belfry 
winder, and a little small hand waving. ’Twas the 
bride. 

“ ‘ God my life, clerk,’ says Mr. Toogood, ‘ I don’t 
know how to face ’em !’ And he sank down upon a 
tombstone. ‘How I wish I hadn’t been so cussed 
particular !’ 

“ ‘Yes — ’twas a pity we didn’t finish it when we’d 
begun,’ the clerk said. ‘ Still, since the feelings of 
your holy priestcraft wouldn’t let ye, the couple must 
put up with it.’ 

“‘True, clerk, true! Does she look as if anything 
premature had took place ?’ 

“ ‘ I can’t see her no lower down than her armpits, 
sir.’ 

“ ‘ Well — how do her face look ?’ 

“‘It do look mighty white!’ 

“‘Well, we must know the worst! Dear me, how 
the small of my back do ache from that ride yester- 
day ! . . . But to more godly business.’ 

“ They went on into the church, and unlocked the 
tower stairs, and immediately poor Jane and Audrey 
busted out like starved mice from a cupboard, Andrey 


life’s little ikonies 


limp and sober enough now, and his bride pale and 
cold, but otherwise as usual. 

“ * What,’ says the pa’son, with a great breath of re- 
lief, ‘ you haven’t been here ever since ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, we have, sir !’ says the bride, sinking down 
upon a seat in her weakness. “Not a morsel, wet or 
dry, have we had since ! It was impossible to get out 
without help, and here we’ve stayed.’ 

“ ‘ But why didn’t you shout, good souls ?’ said the 
pa’son. 

“ ‘She wouldn’t let me,’ says Andrey. 

“‘Because we were so ashamed at what had led to 
it,’ sobs Jane. ‘ We felt that if it were noised abroad 
it would cling to us all our lives ! Once or twice An- 
drey had a good mind to toll the bell, but then he 
said : “No ; I’ll starve first. I won’t bring disgrace 
on my name and yours, my dear.” And so we waited, 
and waited, and walked round and round; but never 
did you come till now !’ 

“ ‘ To my regret !’ says the pa’son. ‘ Now, then, 
we will soon get it over.’ 

“‘I — I should like some victuals,’ said Andrey; 
‘ ’twould gie me courage if it is only a crust o’ bread 
and a’ onion ; for I am that leery that I can feel my 
stomach rubbing against my backbone.’ 

“ ‘ I think we had better get it done,’ said the bride, 
a bit anxious in manner ; ‘ since we are all here con- 
venient, too.’ 

“Andrey gave way about the victuals, and the 
clerk called in a second witness who wouldn’t be 
likely to gossip about it, and soon the knot was tied, 
and the bride looked smiling and calm forthwith, and 
Andrey limper than ever. 

“ ‘ Now,’ said Pa’son Toogood, ‘you two must come 
to my house, and have a good lining put to your in- 
sides before you go a step farther.’ 


ANDEET SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND CLERK 233 

“ They were very glad of the offer, and went out of 
the church -yard by one path while the pa’son and 
clerk went out by the other, and so did not attract 
notice, it being still early. They entered the rectory 
as if they’d just come back from their trip to Port 
Bredy ; and then they knocked in the victuals and 
drink till they could hold no more. 

“ It was a long while before the story of what they 
had gone through was known, but it was talked of in 
time, and they themselves laugh over it now ; though 
what Jane got for her pains was no great bargain af- 
ter all. ’Tis true she saved her name.” 

“Was that the same Andrey who went to the 
squire’s house as one of the Christmas fiddlers ?” asked 
the seedsman. 

“No, no,” replied Mr. Profitt, the school-master. “ It 
was his father did that. Aye, it was all owing to his 
being such a man for eating and drinking.” Finding 
that he had the ear of the audience, the school-master 
continued without delay : 


OLD ANDREY’S EXPERIENCE AS A MUSICIAN 


“ I was one of the choir-boys at that time, and we 
and the players were to appear at the manor-house as 
usual that Christmas week to play and sing in the 
hall to the squire’s people and visitors (among ’em be- 
ing the archdeacon, Lord and Lady Baxby, and I don’t 
know who) ; afterwards going, as we always did, to 
have a good supper in the servants’ hall. Andrew 
knew this was the custom, and meeting us when we 
we were starting to go, he said to us : ‘ Lord, how I 
should like to join in that meal of beef and turkey 
and plum -pudding and ale that you happy ones be 
going to just now ! One more or less will make no 
difference to the squire. I am too old to pass as a 
singing boy, and too bearded to pass as a singing girl; 
can ye lend me a fiddle, neighbors, that I may come 
with ye as a bandsman ?’ 

“ Well, we didn’t like to be hard upon him, and 
lent him an old one, though Andrew knew no more 
of music than the Cerne Giant ; and armed with the 
instrument he walked up to the squire’s house with 
the others of us at the time appointed, and went in 
boldly, his fiddle under his arm. He made himself 
as natural as he could in opening the music-books and 
moving the candles to the best points for throwing 
light upon the notes ; and all went well till we had 
played and sung ‘While shepherds watch,’ and ‘Star, 
arise,’ and e Hark the glad sound.’ Then the squire’s 
mother, a tall, gruff old lady, who was much inter- 
ested in Church music, said quite unexpectedly to An- 


OLD ANDBEY’S EXPERIENCE AS A MUSICIAN 235 

drew : ‘ My man* I see you don’t play your instru- 
ment with the rest. How is that ?’ 

“Every one of the choir was ready to sink into 
the earth with concern at the fix Andrew was in. 
We could see that he had fallen into a cold sweat, 
and how he would get out of it we did not know. 

“ £ I’ve had a misfortune, mem,’ he says, bowing 
as meek as a child. ‘ Coming along the road I fell 
down and broke my bow.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, I am sorry to hear that,’ says she. ‘ Can’t 
it be mended V 

“ ‘ Oh no, mem,’ says Andrew. ‘ ’Twas broke all 
to splinters.’ 

“ ‘ I’ll see what I can do for you,’ says she. 

“ And then it seemed all over, and we played ‘ Re- 
joice, ye drowsy mortals all,’ in D and two sharps. 
But no sooner had we got through it than she says 
to Andrew : 

“ i I’ve sent up into the attic, where we have some 
old musical instruments, and found a bow for you.’ 
And she hands the bow to poor wretched Andrew, 
who didn’t even know which end to take hold of. 
‘Now we shall have the full accompaniment,’ says 
she. 

“Andrew’s face looked as if it were made of rotten 
apple as he stood in the circle of players in front of 
his book ; for if there was one person in the parish 
that everybody was afraid of ’twas this hook-nosed 
old lady. However, by keeping a little behind the 
next man he managed to make pretence of beginning, 
sawing away with his bow without letting it touch 
the strings, so that it looked as if he were driving 
into the tune with heart and soul. ’Tis a question if 
he wouldn’t have got through all right if one of the 
squire’s visitors, no other than the archdeacon, hadn’t 
noticed that he held the fiddle upside-down, the nut 


236 


LIFE’S little IRONIES 


under his chin, and the tail-piece in his hand, and 
they began to crowd round him, thinking ’twas some 
new way of performing. 

“ This revealed everything ; the squire’s mother 
had Andrew turned out of the house as a vile impos- 
tor, and there was great interruption to the harmony 
of the proceedings, the squire declaring he should 
have notice to leave his cottage that day fortnight. 
However, when we got to the servants’ hall there sat 
Andrew, who had been let in at the back door by the 
orders of the squire’s wife, after being turned out at 
the front by the orders of the squire, and nothing 
more was heard about his leaving his cottage. But 
Andrew never performed in public as a musician after 
that night ; and now he’s dead and gone, poor man, 
as we all shall be.” 

“ I had quite forgotten the old choir, with their 
fiddles and bass-viols,” said the home-comer, musing- 
ly. “ Are they still going on the same as of old ?” 

“ Bless the man !” said Christopher Twink, the 
master-thatcher ; “ why, they’ve been done away with 
these twenty year. A young teetotaler plays the 
organ in church now, and plays it very well ; though 
’tis not quite such good music as in old times, be- 
cause the organ is one of them that go with a winch, 
and the young teetotaler says he can’t always throw 
the proper feeling into the tune without wellnigh 
working his arms off.” 

“ Why did they make the change, then ?” 

“Well, partly because of fashion, partly because 
the old musicians got into a sort of scrape. A terri- 
ble scrape ’twas, too — wasn’t it, John? I shall never 
forget it — never ! They lost their character as officers 
of the church as complete as if they’d never had any 
character at all” 


OLD ANDREY’S EXPERIENCE AS A MUSICIAN 237 

“ That was very bad for them.” 

“ Yes.” The master-thatcher attentively regarded 
past times as if they lay about a mile off, and went 
on: 

9 


ABSENT-MINDEDNESS IN A PARISH CHOIR 


“ It happened on Sunday after Christmas — the last 
Sunday they ever played in Longpuddle church gal- 
lery, as it turned out, though they didn’t know it then. 
As you may know, sir, the players formed a very 
good band — almost as good as the Mellstock parish 
players that were led by the Dewys ; and that’s say- 
ing a great deal. There was Nicholas Puddingcome, 
the leader, with the first fiddle ; there was Timothy 
Thomas, the bass-viol man; John Biles, the tenor 
fiddler ; Dan’l Hornhead, with the serpent ; Robert 
Dowdle, with the clarionet ; and Mr. Nicks, with the 
oboe — all sound and powerful musicians, and strong- 
winded men — they that blowed. For that reason 
they were very much in demand Christmas week for 
little reels and dancing-parties ; for they could turn 
a jig or a hornpipe out of hand as well as ever they 
could turn out a psalm, and perhaps better, not to 
speak irreverent. In short, one half-hour they could 
be playing a Christmas carol in the squire’s hall to 
the ladies and gentlemen, and drinking tay and coffee 
with ’em as modest as saints ; and the next, at the 
Tinker’s Arms, blazing away like wild horses with the 
‘ Dashing White Sergeant ’ to nine couple of dancers 
and more, and swallowing rum-and-cider hot as flame. 

“ Well, this Christmas they’d been out to one rat- 
tling randy after another every night, and had got 
next to no sleep at all. Then came the Sunday after 
Christmas, their fatal day. ’Twas so mortal cold 
that year that they could hardly sit in the gallery ; 


ABSENT-MINDEDNESS IN A PAEISH CHOIB 239 

for though the congregation down in the body of the 
church had a stove to keep off the frost, the players 
in the gallery had nothing at all. So Nicholas said 
at morning service, when ’twas freezing an inch an 
hour, ‘ Please the Lord I won’t stand this numbing 
weather no longer ; this afternoon we’ll have some- 
thing in our insides to make us warm if it cost a 
king’s ransom.’ 

“So he brought a gallon of hot brandy and beer, 
ready mixed, to church with him in the afternoon, 
and by keeping the jar well wrapped up in Timothy 
Thomas’s bass - viol bag it kept drinkably warm till 
they wanted it, which was just a thimbleful in the 
Absolution, and another after the Creed, and the re- 
mainder at the beginning o’ the sermon. When 
they’d had the last pull they felt quite comfortable 
and warm, and as the sermon went on — most unfortu- 
nately for ’em it was a long one that afternoon — they 
fell asleep, every man jack of ’em ; and there they 
slept on as sound as rocks. 

“ ’Twas a very dark afternoon, and by the end of 
the sermon all you could see of the inside of the church 
were the pa’son’s two candles alongside of him in the 
pulpit, and his spaking face behind ’em. The sermon 
being ended at last, the pa’son gie’d out the Evening 
Hymn. But no choir set about sounding up the tune, 
and the people began to turn their heads to learn the 
reason why, and then Levi Limpet, a boy who sat in 
the gallery, nudged Timothy and Nicholas, and said, 
‘Begin! begin!’ 

“ ‘ Hey, what ?’ says Nicholas, starting up ; and 
the church being so dark and his head so muddled he 
thought he was at the party they had played at all 
the night before, and away he went, bow and fiddle, 
at ‘ The Devil among the Tailors,’ the favorite jig of 
our neighborhood at that time. The rest of the band, 


m 


life’s little ironies 


being in the same state of mind and nothing doubt- 
ing, followed their leader with all their strength, ac- 
cording to custom. They poured out that there tune 
till the lower bass notes of ‘ The Devil among the 
Tailors’ made the cobwebs in the roof shiver like 
ghosts ; then Nicholas, seeing nobody moved, shouted 
out as he scraped (in his usual commanding way at 
dances when the folk didn’t know the figures), ‘ Top 
couples cross hands ! And when I make the fiddle 
squeak at the end, every man kiss his pardner under 
the mistletoe !’ 

“The boy Levi was so frightened that he bolted 
down the gallery stairs and out homeward like light- 
ning. The pa’son’s hair fairly stood on end when he 
heard the evil tune raging through the church ; and 
thinking the choir had gone crazy, he held up his hand 
and said : ‘ Stop, stop, stop ! Stop, stop ! What’s 
this?’ But they didn’t hear ’n for the noise of their 
own playing, and the more he called the louder they 
played. 

“ Then the folks came out of their pews, wondering 
down to the ground, and saying : ‘ What do they mean 
by such wickedness? We shall be consumed like 
Sodom and Gomorrah !’ 

“Then the squire came out of his pew lined wi’ 
green baize, where lots of lords and ladies visiting at 
the house were worshipping along with him, and went 
and stood in front of the gallery, and shook his fist in 
the musicians’ faces, saying, * What ! In this reverent 
edifice ! What !’ 

“ And at last they heard ’n through their playing, 
and stopped. 

Never such an insulting, disgraceful thing— nev- 
er !’ says the squire, who couldn’t rule his passion. 

“ ‘ Never !’ says the pa’son, who had come down and 
stood beside him. 


ABSENT-MINDEDNESS IN A TAEISH CHOIR 241 

“‘Not if the angels of Heaven,’ says the squire, 
(he was a wickedish man, the squire was, though now 
for once he happened to be on the Lord’s side) — ‘not 
if the angels of Heaven come down,’ he says, ‘ shall 
one of you villanous players ever sound a note in this 
church again ; for the insult to me, and my family, 
and my visitors, and God Almighty, that you’ve a-per- 
petrated this afternoon !’ 

“ Then the unfortunate church band came to their 
senses, and remembered where they were ; and ’twas 
a sight to see Nicholas Puddingcome and Timothy 
Thomas and John Biles creep down the gallery stairs 
with their fiddles under their arms, and poor Dan’l 
Hornhead with his serpent, and Robert Dowdle with 
his clarionet, all looking as little as ninepins ; and out 
they went. The pa’son might have forgi’ed ’em when 
he learned the truth o’t, but the squire would not. 
That very week he sent for a barrel-organ that would 
play two -and - twenty new psalm tunes, so exact and 
particular that, however sinful inclined you was, you 
could play nothing but psalm tunes whatsomever. He 
had a really respectable man to turn the winch, as I 
said, and the old players played no more.” 

“And, of course, my old acquaintance, the annui- 
tant, Mrs. Winter, who always seemed to have some- 
thing on her mind, is dead and gone ?” said the home- 
comer, after a long silence. 

Nobody in the van seemed to recollect the name. 

“ Oh yes, she must be dead long since ; she was 
seventy when I as a child knew her,” he added. 

“I can recollect Mrs. Winter very well, if nobody 
else can,” said the aged groceress. “ Yes, she’s been 
dead these five-and-twenty year at least. You knew 
what it was upon her mind, sir, that gave her that 
hollow-eyed look, I suppose ?” 

16 


life’s LITTLE IRONIES 


243 


“ It had something to do with a son of hers, I think 
I once was told. But I was too young to know par- 
ticulars.” 

The groceress sighed as she conjured up a vision 
of days long past. “ Yes,” she murmured, “ it had all 
to do with a son.” Finding that the van was still in 
a listening mood, she spoke on : 


THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLEYS 


“ To go back to the beginning — if one must — there 
were two women in the parish when I was a child who 
were to a certain extent rivals in good looks. Never 
mind particulars, but in consequence of this they 
were at daggers - drawn, and they did not love each 
other any better when one of them tempted the other’s 
lover away from her and married him. He was a 
young man of the name of Winter, and in due time 
they had a son. 

“ The other woman did not marry for many years ; 
but when she was about thirty a quiet man named 
Palmley asked her to be his wife, and she accepted 
him. You don’t mind when the Palmleys were Long- 
puddle folk, but I do well. She had a son also, who 
was, of course, nine or ten years younger than the son 
of the first. The child proved to be of rather weak 
intellect, though his mother loved him as the apple of 
her eye. 

“This woman’s husband died when the child was 
eight years old, and left his widow and boy in pov- 
erty. Her former rival, also a widow now, but fairly 
well provided for, offered for pity’s sake to take the 
child as errand - boy, small as he was, her own son, 
Jack, being hard upon seventeen. Her poor neighbor 
could do no better than let the child go there. And 
to the richer woman’s house little Palmley straight- 
way went. 

“Well, in some way or other — how, it was never 
exactly known — the thriving woman, Mrs. Winter, 


244 


life’s little ironies 


sent the little boy with a message to the next village 
one December day, much against his will. It was get- 
ting dark, and the child prayed to be allowed not to 
go, because he would be afraid coming home. But 
the mistress insisted, more out of thoughtlessness than 
cruelty, and the child went. On his way back he had 
to pass through Yalbury Wood, and something came 
out from behind a tree and frightened him into fits. 
The child was quite ruined by it ; he became quite a 
drivelling idiot, and soon afterwards died. 

“Then the other woman had nothing left to live 
for, and vowed vengeance against that rival who had 
first won away her lover, and now had been the cause 
of her bereavement. This last affliction was certainly 
not intended by her thriving acquaintance, though it 
must be owned that when it was done she seemed 
but little concerned. Whatever vengeance poor Mrs. 
Palmley felt, she had no opportunity of carrying it 
out, and time might have softened her feelings into 
forgetfulness of her supposed wrongs as she dragged 
on her lonely life. So matters stood when, a year 
after the death of the child, Mrs. Palmley’s niece, who 
had been born and bred in the city of Exonbury, came 
to live with her. 

“This young woman — Miss Harriet Palmley — was 
a proud and handsome girl, very well brought up, and 
more stylish and genteel than the people of our vil- 
lage, as was natural, considering where she came from. 
She regarded herself as much above Mrs. Winter and 
her son in position as Mrs. Winter and her son consid- 
ered themselves above poor Mrs. Palmley. But love 
is an unceremonious thing, and what in the world 
should happen but that young Jack Winter must fall 
wofully and wildly in love with Harriet Palmley al- 
most as soon as he saw her. 

“She, being better educated than he, and caring 


THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLEYS 245 

nothing for the village notion of his mother’s superior- 
ity to her aunt, did not give him much encourage- 
ment. But Longpuddle being no very large world, 
the two could not help seeing a good deal of each 
other while she was staying there, and, disdainful 
young woman as she was, she did seem to take a lit- 
tle pleasure in his attentions and advances. 

“ One day, when they were picking apples together, 
he asked her to marry him. She had not expected 
anything so practical as that at so early a time, and 
was led by her surprise into a half-promise; at any 
rate, she did not absolutely refuse him, and accepted 
some little presents that he made her. 

“ But he saw that her view of him was rather as a 
simple village lad than as a young man to look up to, 
and he felt that he must do something bold to secure 
her. So he said one day, ‘ I am going away, to try to 
get into a better position than I can get here.’ In two 
or three weeks he wished her good-bye, and went away 
to Monksbury to superintend a farm, with a view to 
start as a farmer himself ; and from there he wrote 
regularly to her, as if their marriage were an under- 
stood thing. 

“Now, Harriet liked the young man’s presents and 
the admiration of his eyes, but on paper he was less 
attractive to her. Her mother had been a school-mis- 
tress, and Harriet had besides a natural aptitude for 
pen-and-ink work, in days when to be a ready writer 
was not such a common thing as it is now, and when 
actual handwriting was valued as an accomplishment 
in itself. Jack Winter’s performances in the shape of 
love-letters quite jarred her city nerves and her finer 
taste, and when she answered one of them, in the 
lovely running hand that she took such pride in, she 
very strictly and loftily bade him to practise with a 
pen and spelling - book if he wished to please her, 


246 


life’s little ironies 


Whether he listened to her request or not nobody 
knows, but his letters did not improve. He ventured 
to tell her in his clumsy way that if her heart were 
more warm towards him she would not be so nice 
about his handwriting and spelling ; which indeed 
was true enough. 

“Well, in Jack’s absence the weak flame that had 
been set alight in Harriet’s heart soon sank low, and 
at last went out altogether. He wrote and wrote, and 
begged and prayed her to give a reason for her cold- 
ness ; and then she told him plainly that she was town 
born, and he was not sufficiently well educated to 
please her. 

“ Jack Winter’s want of pen-and-ink training did 
not make him less thin-skinned than others ; in fact, 
he was terribly tender and touchy about anything. 
This reason that she gave for finally throwing him 
over grieved him, shamed him, and mortified him 
more than can be told in these times, the pride of 
that day in being able to write with beautiful flour- 
ishes, and the sorrow at not being able to do so, raging 
so high. Jack replied to her with an angry note, and 
then she hit back with smart little stings, telling him 
how many w r ords he had misspelled in his last letter, 
and declaring again that this alone was sufficient justi- 
fication for any woman to put an end to an understand- 
ing with him. Her husband must be a better scholar. 

“ He bore her rejection of him in silence, but his 
suffering was sharp — all the sharper in being untold. 
She communicated with Jack no more ; and as his 
reason for going out into the world had been only to 
provide a home worthy of her, he had no further ob- 
ject in planning such a home, now that she w T as lost to 
him. He therefore gave up the farming occupation by 
which he had hoped to make himself a master-farmer, 
and left the spot to return to his mother. 


THE WINTERS AtfD THE PALMLETS 


247 

“ As soon as he got back to Longpuddle he found 
that Harriet had already looked wi’ favor upon an- 
other lover. He was a young road - contractor, and 
Jack could not but admit that his rival was, both in 
manners and scholarship, much ahead of him. Indeed, 
a more sensible match for the beauty who had been 
dropped into the village by fate could hardly have 
been found than this man, who could offer her so much 
better a chance than Jack could have done, with his 
uncertain future and narrow abilities for grappling 
with the world. The fact was so clear to him that he 
could hardly blame her. 

“ One day by accident Jack saw on a scrap of paper 
the handwriting of Harriet’s new beloved. It was 
flowing like a stream, well spelled, the work of a man 
accustomed to the ink-bottle and the dictionary — of a 
man already called in the parish a good scholar. And 
then it struck all of a sudden into Jack’s mind what a 
contrast the letters of this young man must make to 
his own miserable old letters, and how ridiculous they 
must make his lines appear. He groaned and wished 
he had never written to her, and wondered if she had 
ever kept his poor performances. Possibly she had 
kept them, for women are in the habit of doing that, 
he thought; and while they were in her hands there 
was always a chance of his honest, stupid love assur- 
ances to her being joked over by Harriet with her 
present lover, or by anybody who should accidentally 
uncover them. 

“ The nervous, moody young man could not bear 
the thought of it, and at length decided to ask her to 
return them, as was proper when engagements were 
broken off. He was some hours in framing, copying, 
and recopying the short note in which he made his 
request, and having finished it, he sent it to her 
house. His messenger came back with the answer, 


248 


life’s little ironies 


by word of mouth, that Miss Palmley bade him say 
she should not part with what was hers, and wondered 
at his boldness in troubling her. 

“ Jack was much affronted at this, and determined 
to go for his letters himself. He chose a time when 
he knew she was at home, and knocked and went in 
without much ceremony ; for though Harriet was so 
high and mighty, Jack had small respect for her aunt, 
Mrs. Palmley, whose little child had been his boot- 
cleaner in earlier days. Harriet was in the room, this 
being the first time they had met since she had jilted 
him. He asked for his letters with a stern and bitter 
look at her. 

44 At first she said he might have them for all that 
she cared, and took them out of the bureau where she 
kept them. Then she glanced over the outside one 
of the packet, and, suddenly altering her mind, she 
told him shortly that his request was a silly one, and 
slipped the letters into her aunt’s work-box, which 
stood open on the table, locking it, and saying with a 
bantering laugh that of course she thought it best to 
keep ’em, since they might be useful to produce as 
evidence that she had good cause for declining to 
marry him. 

44 He blazed up hot. 4 Give me those letters !’ he 
said. 4 They are mine !’ 

44 4 No, they are not,’ she replied ; 4 they are mine.’ 

44 4 Whos’ever they are I want them back,’ says he. 
4 1 don’t want to be made sport of for my penman- 
ship : you’ve another young man now ! He has your 
confidence, and you pour all your tales into his ear. 
You’ll be showing them to him!’ 

44 4 Perhaps,’ said my lady Harriet, with calm cool- 
ness, like the heartless woman that she was. 

44 Her manner so maddened him that he made a 
step towards the work-box, but she snatched it up, 


THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLEYS 


249 


locked it in the bureau, and turned upon him trium- 
phant. For a moment he seemed to be going to 
wrench the key of the bureau out of her hand ; but 
he stopped himself, and swung round upon his heel 
and went away. 

“ When he was out-of-doors alone, and it got night, 
he walked about restless, and stinging with the sense 
of being beaten at all points by her. He could not 
help fancying her telling her new lover or her ac- 
quaintances of this scene with himself, and laughing 
with them over those poor blotted, crooked lines of 
his that he had been so anxious to obtain. As the 
evening passed on he worked himself into a dogged 
resolution to have them back at any price, come what 
might. 

“ At the dead of night he came out of his mother’s 
house by the back door, and creeping through the 
garden hedge went along the field adjoining till he 
reached the back of her aunt’s dwelling. The moon 
struck bright and flat upon the walls, ’twas said, and 
every shiny leaf of the creepers was like a little 
looking - glass in the rays. From long acquaintance 
Jack knew the arrangement and position of every- 
thing in Mrs. Palmley’s house as well as in his own 
mother’s. The back window close to him was a case- 
ment with little leaded squares, as it is to this day, 
and was, as now, one of two lighting the sitting- 
room. The other, being in front, was closed up with 
shutters, but this back one had not even a blind, and 
the moonlight as it streamed in showed every article 
of the furniture to him outside. To the right of the 
room is the fireplace, as you may remember ; to the 
left was the bureau at that time ; inside the bureau 
was Harriet’s work - box, as he supposed (though it 
was really her aunt’s), and inside the work - box were 
his letters. Well, he took out his pocket - knife, and 


250 


life’s little ironies 


without noise lifted the leading of one of the panes, 
so that he could take out the glass, and putting his 
hand through the hole he unfastened the casement, 
and climbed in through the opening. All the house- 
hold — that is to say, Mrs. Palmley, Harriet, and the 
little maid-servant — were asleep. Jack went straight 
to the bureau, so he said, hoping it might have been 
unfastened again — it not being kept locked in ordi- 
nary — but Harriet had never unfastened it since she 
secured her letters there the day before. Jack told 
afterwards how he thought of her asleep up -stairs, 
caring nothing for him, and of the way she had made 
sport of him and of his letters ; and having advanced 
so far, he was not to be hindered now. By forcing 
the large blade of his knife under the flap of the 
bureau he burst the weak lock ; within was the rose- 
wood work-box just as she had placed it in her hurry 
to keep it from him. There being no time to spare for 
getting the letters out of it then, he took it under his 
arm, shut the bureau, and made the best of his way 
out of the house, latching the casement behind him, 
and refixing the pane of glass in its place. 

“ Winter found his way back to his mother’s as he 
had come, and being dog-tired, crept up-stairs to bed, 
hiding the box till he could destroy its contents. The 
next morning early he set about doing this, and car- 
ried it to the linhay at the back of his mother’s dwell- 
ing. Here by the hearth he opened the box, and 
began burning one by one the letters that had cost 
him so much labor to write and shame to think of, 
meaning to return the box to Harriet, after repairing 
the slight damage he had caused it by opening it 
without a key, with a note — the last she would ever 
receive from him — telling her triumphantly that in re- 
fusing to return what he had asked for she had calcu- 
lated too surely upon his submission to her whims. 


THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLETS 


251 


“ But on removing the last letter from the box he 
received a shock ; for underneath it, at the very bot- 
tom, lay money — several golden guineas — ‘ Doubtless 
Harriet’s pocket - money,’ he said to himself ; though 
it was not, but Mrs. Palmley’s. Before he had got 
over his qualms at this discovery he heard footsteps 
coming through the house - passage to where he was. 
In haste he pushed the box and, what was in it under 
some brushwood which lay in the linhay ; but Jack 
had been already seen. Two constables entered the 
out -house, and seized him as he knelt before the fire- 
place, securing the work - box and all it contained at 
the same moment. They had come to apprehend him 
on a charge of breaking into the dwelling-house of 
Mrs. Palmley on the night preceding ; and almost be- 
fore the lad knew what had happened to him they 
were leading him along the lane that connects that 
end of the village with this turnpike-road, and along 
they marched him between ’em all the way to Caster- 
bridge jail. 

“ Jack’s act amounted to night burglary — though he 
had never thought of it — and burglary was felony, and 
a capital offence in those days. His figure had been 
seen by some one against the bright wall as he came 
away from Mrs. Palmley’s back window, and the box 
and money were found in his possession, while the evi- 
dence of the broken bureau lock and tinkered window- 
pane was more than enough for circumstantial detail. 
Whether his protestation that he went only for his let- 
ters, which he believed to be wrongfully kept from 
him, would have availed him anything if supported by 
other evidence I do not know ; but the one person who 
could have borne it out was Harriet, and she acted 
entirely under the sway of her aunt. That aunt was 
deadly towards Jack Winter. Mrs. Palmley’s time had 
come. Here was her revenge upon the woman who 


252 


life’s little ironies 


first won away her lover, and next ruined and deprived 
her of her one heart’s treasure — her little son. When 
the assize week drew on, and Jack had to stand his trial, 
Harriet did not appear in the case at all, which was 
allowed to take its course, Mrs. Palmley testifying to 
the general facts of the burglary. Whether Harriet 
would have come forward if Jack had appealed to her 
is not known ; possibly she would have done it for 
pity’s sake ; but Jack was too proud to ask a single 
favor of a girl who had jilted him, and he let her alone. 
The trial was a short one, and the death sentence was 

“The day o’ young Jack’s execution was a cold, 
dusty Saturday in March. He was so boyish and slim 
that they were obliged in mercy to hang him in the 
heaviest fetters kept in the jail, lest his heft should 
not break his neck, and they weighed so upon him that 
he could hardly drag himself up to the drop. At that 
time the gover’ment was not strict about burying the 
body of an executed person within the precincts of the 
prison, and at the earnest prayer of his poor mother 
his body was allowed to be brought home. All the 
parish waited at their cottage doors in the evening 
for its arrival ; I remember how, as a very little girl, I 
stood by my mother’s side. About eight o’clock, as we 
hearkened on our door-stones in the cold, bright star- 
light, we could hear the faint crackle of a wagon from 
the direction of the turnpike-road. The noise was lost 
as the wagon dropped into a hollow, then it was plain 
again as it lumbered down the next long incline, and 
presently it entered Longpuddle. The coffin was laid 
in the belfry for the night, and the next day, Sun- 
day, between the services, we buried him. A funeral 
sermon was preached the same afternoon, the text 
chosen being, ‘ He was the only son of his mother, and 
she was a widow.’ ... Yes, they were cruel times l 


THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLEYS 


253 


“As for Harriet, she and her lover were married in 
due time ; but by all account her life was no jocund 
one. She and her good-man found that they could not 
live comfortably at Longpuddle by reason of her con- 
nection with J ack’s misfortunes, and they settled in a 
distant town, and were no more heard of by us; Mrs. 
Palmley, too, found it advisable to join ’em shortly 
after. The dark-eyed, gaunt old Mrs. Winter, remem- 
bered by the emigrant gentleman here, was, as you 
will have foreseen, the Mrs. Winter of this story ; 
and I can well call to mind how lonely she was, how 
afraid the children were of her, and how she kept 
herself as a stranger among us, though she lived so 
long.” 

“Longpuddle has had her sad experiences as well as 
her sunny ones,” said Mr. Lackland. 

“Yes, yes. But I am thankful to say not many like 
that, though good and bad have lived among us.” 

“There was Georgy Crookhill — he was one of the 
shady sort, as I have reason to know,” observed the 
registrar, with the manner of a man who would like to 
have his say also. 

“ I used to hear what he was as a boy at school.” 

“ Well, as he began so he went on. It never got so 
far as a hanging matter with him, to be sure ; but he 
had some narrow escapes of penal servitude, and once 
it was a case of the biter bit.” 


INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MR. GEORGE 
CROOKHILL 


“ One day,” the registrar continued, “ Georgy was 
ambling out of Melchester on a miserable screw, the 
fair being just over, when he saw in front of him a 
fine-looking young farmer riding out of the town in 
the same direction. He was mounted on a good, strong, 
handsome animal, worth fifty guineas if worth a crown. 
When they were going up Bissett Hill, Georgy made 
it his business to overtake the young farmer. They 
passed the time o’ day to one another ; Georgy spoke 
of the state of the roads, and jogged alongside the well- 
mounted stranger in very friendly conversation. The 
farmer had not been inclined to say much to Georgy 
at first, but by degrees he grew quite affable, too — as 
friendly as Georgy was towards him. He told Crook- 
hill that he had been doing business at Melchester fair, 
and was going on as far as Shottsford-Forum that night, 
so as to reach Casterbridge market the next day. When 
they came to Woodyates Inn they stopped to bait their 
horses, and agreed to drink together ; with this they 
got more friendly than ever, and on they went again. 
Before they had nearly reached Shottsford it came on 
to rain, and as they were now passing through the vil- 
lage of Trantridge, and it was quite dark, Georgy per- 
suaded the young farmer to go no farther that night ; 
the rain would most likely give them a chill. For his 
part he had heard that the little inn here was com- 
fortable, and he meant to stay. At last the young 


INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF ME. C&OOKH1LL 255 

farmer agreed to put up there also ; and they dis- 
mounted and entered, and had a good supper to- 
gether, and talked over their affairs like men who had 
known and proved each other a long time. When it 
was the hour for retiring they went up -stairs to a 
double-bedded room which Georgy Crookhill had 
asked the landlord to let them share, so sociable were 
they. 

“ Before they fell asleep they talked across the room 
about one thing and another, running from this to 
that till the conversation turned upon disguises, and 
changing clothes for particular ends. The farmer 
told Georgy that he had often heard tales of people 
doing it, but Crookhill professed to be very ignorant 
of all such tricks ; and soon the young farmer sank 
into slumber. 

“ Early in the morning, while the tall young farmer 
was still asleep (I tell the story as ’twas told me), hon- 
est Georgy crept out of his bed by stealth, and dressed 
himself in the farmer’s clothes, in the pockets of the said 
clothes being the farmer’s money. N o w though Georgy 
particularly wanted the farmer’s nice clothes and nice 
horse, owing to a little transaction at the fair which 
made it desirable that he should not be too easily 
recognized, his desires had their bounds ; he did not 
wish to take' his young friend’s money, at any rate 
more of it than was necessary for paying his bill. 
This he abstracted, and leaving the farmer’s purse 
containing the rest on the bedroom table, went down- 
stairs. The inn folks had not particularly noticed the 
faces of their customers, and the one or two who were 
up at this hour had no thought but that Georgy was 
the farmer ; so when he had paid the bill very lib- 
erally, and said he must be off, no objection was made 
to his getting the farmer’s horse saddled for himself ; 
and he rode away upon it as if it were his own. 


256 


life’s little ironies 


“ About half an hour after the young farmer awoke, 
and looking across the room saw that his friend Georgy 
had gone away in clothes which didn’t belong to him, 
and had kindly left for himself the seedy ones worn 
by Georgy. At this he sat up in a deep thought 
for some time, instead of hastening to give an alarm. 
‘The money, the money is gone,’ he said to himself, 
‘and that’s bad. But so are the clothes.’ 

“ He then looked upon the table and saw that the 
money, or most of it, had been left behind. 

“ ‘ Ha, ha, ha !’ he cried, and began to dance about 
the room. ‘ Ha, ha, ha !’ he said again, and made 
beautiful smiles to himself in the shaving-glass and in 
the brass candlestick ; and then swung about his arms 
for all the world as if he were going through the 
sword exercise. 

“ When he had dressed himself in Georgy’s clothes 
and gone down-stairs, he did not seem to mind at all 
that they took him for the other ; and even when he 
saw that he had been left a bad horse for a good one, 
he was not inclined to cry out. They told him his 
friend had paid the bill, at which he seemed much 
pleased, and without waiting for breakfast he mounted 
Georgy’s horse and rode away likewise, choosing the 
nearest by-lane in preference to the high-road, without 
knowing that Georgy had chosen that by-lane also. 

“He had not trotted more than two miles in the 
personal character of Georgy Crookhill when, sudden- 
ly rounding a bend that the lane made thereabout, he 
came upon a man struggling in the hands of two vil- 
lage constables. It was his friend Georgy, the bor- 
rower of his clothes and horse. But so far was the 
young farmer from showing any alacrity in rushing 
forward to claim his property that he would have 
turned the poor beast he rode into the wood adjoining, 
if he had not beep already perceived. 


INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MR. CROOKHILL 257 


“ 4 Help, help, help !’ cried the constables. * Assist- 
ance in the name of the Crown !’ 

44 The young farmer could do nothing but ride for- 
ward. 4 What’s the matter ?’ he inquired, as coolly as 
he could. 

44 4 A deserter — a deserter !’ said they. 4 One who’s 
to be tried by court-martial and shot without parley. 
He deserted from the Dragoons at Cheltenham some 
days ago, and was tracked ; but the search-party can’t 
find him anywhere, and we told ’em if we met him 
we’d hand him on to ’em forthwith. The day after 
he left the barracks the rascal met a respectable farmer 
and made him drunk at an inn, and told him what a 
fine soldier he would make, and coaxed him to change 
clothes, to see how well a military uniform would be- 
come him. This the simple farmer did ; when our 
deserter said that for a joke he would leave the room 
and go to the landlady, to see if she would know him 
in that dress. He never came back, and Farmer Jol- 
lice found himself in soldier’s clothes, the money in 
his pockets gone, and, when he got to the stable, his 
horse gone too.’ 

44 4 A scoundrel !’ says the young man in Georgy’s 
clothes. 4 And is this the wretched caitiff?’ (pointing 
to Georgy). 

44 4 No, no !’ cries Georgy, as innocent as a babe of 
this matter of the soldier’s desertion. 4 He’s the man ! 
He was wearing Farmer Jollice’s suit o’ clothes, and 
he slept in the same room wi’ me, and brought up the 
subject of changing clothes, which put it into my 
head to dress myself in his suit before he was awake. 
He’s got on mine !’ 

44 4 D’ye hear the villain ?’ groans the tall young man 
to the constables. ‘Trying to get out of his crime 
by charging the first innocent man with it that he 
sees ! No, master soldier — that won’t do !’ 

17 


258 


life’s little ironies 


“ ‘ No, no ! That won’t do !’ the constables chimed 
in. ‘To have the impudence to say such as that, 
when we caught him in the act almost ! But, thank 
God, we’ve got the handcuffs on him at last.’ 

“‘We have, thank God,’ said the tall young man. 
‘Well, I must move on. Good-luck to ye with your 
prisoner !’ And off he went as fast as his poor jade 
would carry him. 

“ The constables then, with Georgy handcuffed be- 
tween ’em, and leading the horse, marched off in the 
other direction, towards the village where they had 
been accosted by the escort of soldiers sent to bring 
the deserter back, Georgy groaning : ‘ I shall be shot, 
I shall be shot !’ They had not gone more than a 
mile before they met them. 

“ ‘ Hoi, there !’ says the head constable. 

“ ‘ Hoi, yerself !’ says the corporal in charge. 

‘“We’ve got your man,’ says the constable. 

“‘Where?’ says the corporal. 

“ ‘ Here, between us,’ said the constable. ‘ Only you 
don’t recognize him out o’ uniform.’ 

“ The corporal looked at Georgy hard enough ; then 
shook his head and said he was not the absconder. 

“ ‘ But the absconder changed clothes with Farmer 
Jollice, and took his horse ; and this man has ’em, 
d’ye see !’ 

“ ‘ ’Tis not our man,’ said the soldiers. ‘ He’s a tall 
young fellow with a mole on his right cheek, and a 
military bearing, which this man decidedly ha3 not.’ 

“‘I told the servants of the Crown that ’twas the 
other !’ pleaded Georgy. ‘ But they wouldn’t believe 
me.’ 

“ And so it became clear that the missing dragoon 
was the tall young farmer, and not Georgy Crookhill 
— a fact which Farmer Jollice himself corroborated 
when he arrived on the scene. As Georgy had only 


INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MR. CROOKHILL 259 

robbed the robber, his sentence was comparatively 
light. The deserter from the Dragoons was never 
traced; his double shift of clothing having been of 
the greatest advantage to him in getting off, though 
he left Georgy’s horse behind him a few miles ahead, 
having found the poor creature more hinderance than 
aid.” 

The man from abroad seemed to be less interested 
in the questionable characters of Longpuddle and their 
strange adventures than in the ordinary inhabitants 
and the ordinary events, though his local fellow-trav- 
ellers preferred the former as subjects of discussion. 
He now for the first time asked concerning young 
persons of the opposite sex — or rather those who had 
been young when he left his native land. His inform- 
ants, adhering to their own opinion that the remark- 
able was better worth telling than the ordinary, would 
not allow him to dwell upon the simple chronicles of 
those who had merely come and gone. They asked 
him if he remembered Hetty Sargent. 

“ Hetty Sargent — I do, just remember her. She was 
a young woman living with her uncle when I left, if 
my childish recollection may be trusted.” 

“ That was the maid. She was a oneyer, if you like, 
sir. Hot any harm in her, you know, but up to every- 
thing. You ought to hear how she got the copyhold 
of her house extended. Oughtn’t he, Mr. Day?” 

“ He ought,” replied the world-ignored old painter. 

“ Tell him, Mr. Day. Hobody can do it better than 
you, and you know the legal part better than some 
of us.” 

Day apologized, and began : 


NETTY SARGENT’S COPYHOLD 


“ She continued to live with her uncle, in the lonely 
house by the copse, just as at the time you knew her; 
a tall, spry young woman. Ah, how well one can re- 
member her black hair and dancing eyes at that time, 
and her sly way of screwing up her mouth when she 
meant to tease ye! Well, she was hardly out of short 
frocks before the chaps were after her, and by long 
and by late she was courted by a young man whom 
perhaps you did not know — Jasper Cliff was his name 
— and, though she might have had many a better fel- 
low, he so greatly took her fancy that ’twas Jasper or 
nobody for her. He was a selfish customer, always 
thinking less of what he was going to do than of what 
he was going to gain by his doings. Jasper’s eyes 
might have been fixed upon Netty, but his mind was 
upon her uncle’s house ; though he was fond of her in 
his way — I admit that. 

“ This house, built by her great-great-grandfather, 
with its garden and little field, was copyhold — granted 
upon lives in the old way, and had been so granted 
for generations. Her uncle’s was the last life upon 
the property, so that at his death, if there was no ad- 
mittance of new lives, it would all fall into the hands 
of the lord of the manor. But ’twas easy to admit — • 
a slight ‘fine,’ as ’twas called, of a few pounds, was 
enough to entitle him to a new deed o’ grant by the 
custom of the manor; and the lord could not hin- 
der it. 

“Now, there could be no better provision for his 


netty sargent’s copyhold 


261 


niece and only relative than a sure house over her 
head, and Netty’s uncle should have seen to the re- 
newal in time, owing to the peculiar custom of forfeit- 
ure by the dropping of the last life before the new 
fine was paid ; for the squire was very anxious to get 
hold of the house and land ; and every Sunday when 
the old man came into the church and passed the 
squire’s pew, the squire would say, ‘A little weaker 
in his knees, a little crookeder in his back — and the 
readmittance not applied for, ha ! ha ! I shall be able 
to make a complete clearing of that corner of the 
manor some day !’ 

“ ’Twas extraordinary, now we look back upon it, 
that old Sargent should have been so dilatory ; yet 
some people are like it, and he put off calling at the 
squire’s agent’s office with the fine week after week, 
saying to himself, ‘ I shall have more time next mar- 
ket-day than I have now.’ One unfortunate hinderance 
was that he didn’t very well like Jasper Cliff, and as 
Jasper kept urging Netty, and Netty on that account 
kept urging her uncle, the old man was inclined to 
postpone the reliveing as long as he could, to spite the 
selfish young lover. At last old Mr. Sargent fell ill, 
and then Jasper could bear it no longer : he produced 
the fine money himself, and handed it to Netty, and 
spoke to her plainly. 

“ ‘ You and your uncle ought to know better. You 
should press him more. There’s the money. If you 
let the house and ground slip between ye, I won’t 
marry ; hang me if I will ! For folks won’t deserve 
a husband that can do such things.’ 

“The worried girl took the money and went home, 
and told her uncle that it was no house no husband 
for her. Old Mr. Sargent pooh-poohed the money, for 
the amount was not worth consideration, but he did 
qow bestir himself, for he saw she was bent upon mar- 


262 


life’s little ironies 


rying Jasper, and he did not wish to make her unhap- 
py, since she was so determined. It was much to the 
squire’s annoyance that he found Sargent had moved 
in the matter at last ; but he could not gainsay it, 
and the documents were prepared (for on this manor 
the copyholders had writings with their holdings, 
though on some manors they had none). Old Sargent 
being now too feeble to go to the agent’s house, the 
deed was to be brought to his house signed, and hand- 
ed over as a receipt for the money ; the counterpart 
to be signed by Sargent, and sent back to the squire. 

“ The agent had promised to call on old Sargent for 
this purpose at five o’clock, and Netty put the money 
into her desk to have it close at hand. While doing 
this she heard a slight cry from her uncle, and turn- 
ing round, saw that he had fallen forward in his chair. 
She went and lifted him, but he was unconscious, and 
unconscious he remained. Neither medicine nor stim- 
ulants would bring him to himself. She had been told 
that he might possibly go off in that way, and it seemed 
as if the end had come. Before she had started for a 
doctor his face and extremities grew quite cold and 
white, and she saw that help would be useless. He 
was stone-dead. 

“Netty’s situation rose upon her distracted mind in 
all its seriousness. The house, garden, and field were 
lost — by a few hours — and with them a home for her- 
self and her lover. She would not think so meanly of 
Jasper as to suppose that he would adhere to the reso- 
lution declared in a moment of impatience ; but she 
trembled, nevertheless. Why could not her uncle have 
lived a couple of hours longer, since he had lived so 
long ? It was now past three o’clock ; at five the agent 
was to call, and, if all had gone well, by ten minutes 
past five the house and holding would have been se- 
curely hers for her own and Jasper’s lives, these being 


netty sargent’s copyhold 


263 


two of the three proposed to be added by paying the 
fine. How that wretched old squire would rejoice at 
getting the little tenancy into his hands ! He did not 
really require it, but constitutionally hated these tiny 
copyholds and leaseholds and freeholds, which made 
islands of independence in the fair, smooth ocean of 
his estates. 

“ Then an idea struck into the head of Netty how 
to accomplish her object in spite of her uncle’s negli- 
gence. It was a dull December afternoon, and the 
first step in her scheme — so the story goes, and I see 
no reason to doubt it — ” 

“ ’Tis true as the light,” affirmed Christopher Twink. 
“I was just passing by.” 

“The first step in her scheme was to fasten the 
outer door, to make sure of not being interrupted. 
Then she set to work by placing her uncle’s small, 
heavy oak table before the fire ; then she went to her 
uncle’s corpse, sitting in the chair as he had died — a 
stuffed arm-chair, on castors, and rather high in the 
seat, so it was told me — and wheeled the chair, uncle 
and all, to the table, placing him with his back tow- 
ards the window, in the attitude of bending over the 
said oak table, which I knew as a boy as well as I know 
any piece of furniture in my own house. On the table 
she laid the large family Bible open before him, and 
placed his forefinger on the page; and then she opened 
his eyelids a bit, and put on him his spectacles, so that 
from behind he appeared for all the world as if he 
were reading the Scriptures. Then she unfastened 
the door and sat down, and when it grew dark she 
lit a candle, and put it on the table beside her uncle’s 
book. 

“ Folk may well guess how the time passed with her 
till the agent came, and how, when his knock sounded 
upon the door, she nearly started out of her skin — at 


264 


life’s little ironies 


least, that’s as it was told me. Netty promptly went 
to the door. 

“‘Iam sorry, sir,’ she says, under her breath ; ‘ my 
uncle is not so well to-night, and I’m afraid he can’t 
see you.’ 

“ ‘ H’m! — that’s a pretty tale,’ says the steward. ‘ So 
I’ve come all this way about this trumpery little job 
for nothing !’ 

“ ‘ Oh no, sir — I hope not,’ says Netty. ‘ I suppose 
the business of granting the new deed can be done just 
the same ?’ 

“ ‘ Done ? Certainly not. He must pay the renewal 
money, and sign the parchment in my presence.’ 

“ She looked dubious. ‘Uncle is so dreadful nervous 
about law business,’ says she, ‘ that, as you know, he’s 
put it off and put it off for years ; and now to-day real- 
ly I’ve feared it would verily drive him out of his mind. 
His poor three teeth quite chattered when I said to him 
that you would be here soon with the parchment writ- 
ing. He always was afraid of agents, and folks that 
come for rent, and such like.’ 

“ ‘ Poor old fellow — I’m sorry for him. Well, the 
thing can’t be done unless I see him and witness his 
signature.’ 

“ ‘ Suppose, sir, that you see him sign, and he don’t 
see you looking at him? I’d soothe his nerves by 
saying you weren’t strict about the form of witness- 
ing, and didn’t wish to come in. So that it was done 
in your bare presence it would be sufficient, would it 
not ? As he’s such an old, shrinking, shivering man, it 
would be a great considerateness on your part if that 
would do.’ 

“ ‘ In my bare presence would do, of course — that’s 
all I come for. But how can I be a witness without 
his seeing me ?’ 

‘“Why, in this way, sir; if you’ll oblige me by just 


NETTY SAKGENT’s COPYHOLD 


265 


stepping here.’ She conducted him a few yards to the 
left, till they were opposite the parlor window. The 
blind had been left up purposely, and the candle-light 
shone out upon the garden bushes. Within the agent 
could see, at the other end of the room, the back and 
side of the old man’s head, and his shoulders and arm, 
sitting with the book and candle before him, and his 
spectacles on his nose, as she had placed him. 

“ ‘ He’s reading his Bible, as you see, sir,’ she says, 
quite in her meekest way. 

“ ‘Yes. I thought he was a careless sort of man in 
matters of religion.’ 

“ ‘He always was fond of his Bible,’ Netty assured 
him. ‘Though I think he’s nodding over it just at 
this moment. However, that’s natural in an old man, 
and unwell. Now you could stand here and see him 
sign, couldn’t you, sir, as he’s such an invalid ?’ 

“‘Very well,’ said the agent, lighting a cigar. 
‘You have ready by you the merely nominal sum 
you’ll have to pay for the admittance, of course ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said Netty. ‘ I’ll bring it out.’ She fetched 
the cash, wrapped in paper, and handed it to him, and 
when he had counted it the steward took from his 
breast-pocket the precious parchments and gave one 
to her to be signed. 

“‘Uncle’s hand is a little paralyzed,’ she said. 
‘And what with his being half asleep, too, really I 
don’t know what sort of a signature he’ll be able to 
make.’ 

“ ‘Doesn’t matter, so that he signs.’ 

“ ‘ Might I hold his hand ?’ 

“ ‘ Aye, hold his hand, my young woman — that will 
be near enough.’ 

“Netty re-entered the house, and the agent contin- 
ued smoking outside the window. Now came the 
ticklish part of Netty’s performance. The steward 


266 


life’s little ironies 


saw her put the inkhorn — ‘horn,’ says I, in my old- 
fashioned way — the inkstand, before her uncle, and 
touch his elbow as if to arouse him, and speak to him, 
and spread out the deed; when she had pointed to 
show him where to sign she dipped the pen and put it 
into his hand. To hold his hand she artfully stepped 
behind him, so that the agent could only see a little 
bit of his head and the hand she held; but he saw the 
old man’s hand trace his name on the document. As 
soon as ’twas done she came out to the steward with 
the parchment in her hand, and the steward signed as 
witness by the light from the parlor window. Then 
he gave her the deed signed by the squire, and left; 
and next morning Netty told the neighbors that her 
uncle was dead in his bed.” 

“ She must have undressed him and put him there.” 

“She must. Oh, that girl had a nerve, I can tell 
ye! Well, to cut a long story short, that’s how she 
got back the house and field that were, strictly speak- 
ing, gone from her; and by getting them, got her a 
husband. When the old squire was dead, and his 
son came into the property, what Netty had done be- 
gan to be whispered about, for she had told a friend 
or two. But Netty was a pretty young woman, and 
the squire’s son was a pretty young man at that time, 
and wider-minded than his father, having no objection 
to little holdings; and he never took any proceedings 
against her.” 

There was now a lull in the discourse, and soon the 
van descended the hill leading into the long straggling 
village. When the houses were reached the passen- 
gers dropped off one by one, each at his or her own 
door. Arrived at the inn, the returned emigrant se- 
cured a bed, and, having eaten a light meal, sallied 
forth upon the scene he had known so well in his early 


netty sargent’s copyhold 


267 


days. Though flooded with the light of the rising 
moon, none of the objects wore the attractiveness in 
this their real presentation that had ever accompanied 
their images in the field of his imagination when he 
was more than two thousand miles removed from them. 
The peculiar charm attaching to an old village in an 
old country, as seen by the eyes of an absolute for- 
eigner, was lowered in his case by magnified expecta- 
tions from infantine memories. He walked on, look- 
ing at this chimney and that old wall, till he came to 
the church-yard, which he entered. 

The headstones, whitened by the moon, were easily 
decipherable ; and now for the first time Lackland be- 
gan to feel himself amid the village community that 
he had left behind him five-and-thirty years before. 
Here, besides the Sallets, the Darths, the Pawles, the 
Privetts, the Sargents, and others of whom he had 
just heard, were names he remembered even better 
than those : the Jickses, and the Crosses, and the 
Knights, and the Olds. Doubtless representatives of 
these families, or some of them, were yet among the 
living ; but to him they would all be as strangers. 
Far from finding his heart ready supplied with roots 
and tendrils here, he perceived that in returning to 
this spot it would be incumbent upon him to re-es- 
tablish himself from the beginning, precisely as though 
he had never known the place nor it him. Time had 
not condescended to wait his pleasure, nor local life 
his greeting. 

The figure of Mr. Lackland was seen at the inn, and 
in the village street, and in the fields and lanes about 
Upper Longpuddle for a few days after his arrival, 
and then, ghost-like, it silently disappeared. He had 
told some of the villagers that his immediate purpose 
in coming had been fulfilled by a sight of the place, 
and by conversation with its inhabitants ; but that his 


268 


life’s little ironies 


ulterior purpose — of coming to spend his latter days 
among them — would probably never be carried out. It 
is now a dozen or fifteen years since his visit was paid, 
and his face has not again been seen. 

March, 1891. 


THE END 











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